By Pavel Chichikov
He held the volume by its bottom edge
Leaned the slanting cover on his arm –
The cover shone with gold and cabochons
Of rubies, amethysts and emeralds.
Opened to the middle of the book
It spread out on his shoulder like a fan –
The page within was gleaming with a sun,
Ivory clouds and azure sky – the man
Reached in – there was no picture there
But space itself, a universe, a sky
As deep as any I had ever seen
On Earth – if so then tell me, where was I?
He spun the book again, and in a blur
It closed, became a flower, small and blue –
Leaned toward little Robin, touched his coat
Then turned away – the gelding rose and flew
The others gaped, but I stared at the coat –
The sky blue flower glimmered there – I thought
It was a sort of passport or a badge,
A token of identity, hard-bought
Our friend was gone – I thought he was our friend
And yet he'd gone, abandoned us to seek
Our safety somewhere else – Who would defend
The three of us, the children small and weak
And me, uncertain where to go, or what
Would nourish us, conceal us from the foe
Who ruled this wasteland – aimlessly we searched
The streets – the children meanwhile told me how
One morning early Sunday they awoke
To find their parents gone, an empty bed
And nothing in the street but fire, smoke –
The neighbors all converging in the street
To wait for God knew what – they were compelled
As if by instinct like some homing birds –
And as we talked and looked ahead, beheld
An open door, a light within – we heard…
The Shoulder of the Sun Part Fourteen will be featured tomorrow.
To visit Pavel Chichikov's website click *here*
