You must remember his eighteenth birthday,
the day he returned home for Thanksgiving,
and you celebrated him with a handsome
wool coat, a coat that was beyond your means,
tailored impeccably, not one loose thread;
something you would pay dearly, imagining
him, a different cut of cloth, a soon-to-be
man who would change the world as you did
the day you knew you were expecting him . . .
To be– an ephemeral notion, like fog
drifting– in the orchard, over turned fields,
out over the lake. What you expected isn’t
what he has become. You have a farmhouse
full of drawers filled with clutter– some of it
his– reminding you that he was once
the language of stars. Now the light you see is
false light, shining from the distance of
something lost long ago.
M.J. Iuppa lives on a small farm near the shores of Lake Ontario. Her most recent poems have appeared in Poetry East, The Chariton Review, Tar River Poetry, Blueline, The Prose Poem Project, and The Centrifugal Eye, among others. Recent chapbook is As the Crows Flies (Foothills Publishing, 2008) and second full length collection, h, Within Reach (Cherry Grove Collections, 2010); Forthcoming prose chapbook Between Worlds (Foothills Publishing) She is Writer-in-Residence and Director of the Visual and Performing Arts Minor program at St. John Fisher College, Rochester, NY.