Poem for Thursday, August 15, 2013

Three Autumns Ago

This one evening in October when the power
failed, when it bled out from black cables


forming parabolas over sod fences, snakelike,
dissipating into the valley, I went inside his


house. Darkness abounded, of course, so
I followed a draft into the kitchen, gripping


the hem of its imaginary dress like a child, like
some curious little child. He pulled out a stool


at the table and lit a candle so I could write a
letter. Looking out the window, he stood with


his arms behind his back, one hand gently
cupping the other, watching the spectacle for


a few minutes. I stopped writing to watch him,
to feel his eyes wax and drip through the


glass like the very candle in front of me, and
without turning his head he told me to come


over and look out with him in a tone tinged
with a beautiful urgency. Then, he said this:


Tenger khaaya ulaan baidag. And at that
moment, there it was: a bloody war in the sky


started by the sun. Before it passed, before
I returned to my pen and staggering flame, I


had to acknowledge his words and whisper
back in agreement: yes, the sky is seldom red.