“Draft/Mouth” by Peter LaBerge

Draft/Mouth

 

If at our most dangerous / we

blink. If winter reveals itself

like a soldier's gibbous mouth.

If rows of silos give way to fire.

If Jonathan, my father's / ideal

son. If evening, a painted face/

I could peel off. If speak. If

with my own two hands, if

stained / sky. If  for three days

I pull and pull / the soft white

thread of my name / from

my father's throat/ as he registers

me in the next room. If a house

wraps itself in thread/ until it is

no longer a house / but

rather the drafted boy / I might one

day become. If no waning

apology/ in my father's mouth,

if no lifted tracks. If

doused in  petrol /  my mouth's god like

a field filled with silent /

children. If each twirls in the

wind / until they lift apart. If

match, if strike.