The snow tree in full bloom:
a dash of white on each branch
knocking on the window
of the hospital room. The snow
smells inert, nothing at all,
soundless shadows drifting
over nothing. Then a bough
opens the window, makes clear
by its shady fingers how sons
and daughters were really trees
with above-ground roots,
that the fatherless ones had
better be moving on.
A pale nurse who might as well
be part of the sky hovers over
a steel tray, applying false hope
judiciously. The cabinet closes,
shifts to the left or the right
a few inches. Your hair stands
on end, thinking how you’ve
named everything in the room.
Your toes wiggle stupidly.
David Capps is a philosophy professor at Quinnipiac University. His poems have been featured most recently in All the Sins, Mantra Review, Peacock Journal, and The Nasiona. He lives in New Haven, CT, with a luxurious Maine Coon named Purrbasket.
Appears In
Cagibi Issue 5
