[poem] Before and After

whiteman

by Mark Granier


—for Samantha and Simon

1

Watching sea and sky
darken and simplify,

I think of what's now in hand;
the stubby, white plastic wand

you drew from your handbag to show
(in its recessed, thumbnail window)

two, clear-blue lines,
one light, one darkly defined:

a skipped heartbeat, a stone
out of sight, over the known

peaceable old horizon
I had rested my eyes on.

        ***

Now he is sounded, swept
into webbings of light,

restless, more and less real,
metaphors on a roll,

none clearer than the top
of his skull: oval, a raindrop

let go, falling on course,
eye to eye with the Earth

dreaming up sun, moon, stars...
in its hammock of waters.

2

Stroking his forehead, I found it
by accident, that soft spot
under the skin, where the young bone
knits... knits... knits...

His lopsided, premature smile
is a quiver of pain. He is all
there, solid, a touchstone
in touch, a part of the main.

3

This how I find he has nosed
his spreading taproot down
into my days.
         I come to
in my old pose, at a window,
lightly swaying from foot
to foot,
    as if nursing more
than a paperback (his warm bulk);
surprised then to find our rock-
aby rhythm—the day itself,
                            gentled,
cradling my old head—
even in prose.