I wish I knew you well enough to make
a sound that points to your especial gift,
more complete than the magic afternoon
you told yourself you would remember always
(and you do) or the promise of a film or book
to go on past its ending: live then so.
Why should you, more than momentarily,
believe such prompt unless the author knew
your life, your mind, your history and hurts?
And I do not. And so you gaze away
unmoved, unmarked by sounds that ask for all
of you: intent on single contest for
your singular self. The tomtoms back of you
are growing faint; you cannot yet quite hear
the One ahead who makes to say how long
He knew the way His prize – that you – would come.
So you resist, until the One with milk
will nudge you nearer, wild hungry kitten;
until the taste at once blood-deep and strange
will fill your head with strength, your cry with age.
JOHN VIGREN is a landscape photographer and recovering addict. He has been a machinist, road maintenance laborer, gardener, factory worker, practicing attorney, radio news correspondent, and church deacon. He lives in New Jersey with his wife, Elizabeth.