She holds in her skull
the quilted memory of a pain
fused with a metal plate.
Some nights she can feel the sky
hard as steel building to a muscled
roar. She is always fourteen.
In her the lightning waits
to sing out, to arc in a touch.
She balances a song against her fear,
never singing of a father
she heard dying miles away
and who died mid-refrain.
For once she lacked the strength
to catch the notes as they flew
up and out of range, into the dark
clouds gathering in all the world
she will ever hear.
Richard Weaver resides in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor where he volunteers with the Maryland Book Bank, and is a seasonal snowflake counter (unofficially). His publications include conjunctions, crazyhorse, Loch Raven Review, North American Review, Poetry, Black Warrior Review, 2River View, New Eengland Review, and the ubiquitous Elsewhere.
Recent poems have appeared in the Southern Quarterly, Little Patuxent Review, Red Eft Review, Crack the Spine, and Gingerbread House. Forthcoming work will be appearing in Clade Song, Dead Mule, & Steel Toe Review (2017).