Bald Eagle

You suggested turning back to join the crowd watching

the bald eagle in the field, but I said to keep going, the long drive ahead of us.

There is no inspiration for poetry, no joy in the memories.

Abuse recolors them, strips away even the nostalgic remembrance


of happier times in a lost relationship. Stripped the magic

from the rooftop of the cathedral in Milan, walking amongst the statues

with my broken toe and gazing over the city, from the crashing

moving fractals of the devil’s waterfall in Iguazu that overwhelmed my mind


in a way I’ve never felt before, from the marketplace in Cordoba

where I picked up the toadstool earrings from a local artisan,

far from the tourist markets of the capital city with their Argentina-stamped leather.

Will a day come when I have snipped your picture from the photographs of my mind,


be able to talk about the view from the window we–I–saw

overlooking the roof of the church from my temporary living room

without that hesitation of a shadow over my heart where your figure should be.

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