Three Generations


by Clyde Kessler

I will have to become a monster
And make him have nightmares.
—Alan, 6 November 2004

My father and my son are walking the sold farm.
I linger behind them with a camera, focusing dark.
A phoebe sings from the springhouse. Its voice
shrills into the rotten boards, and the honeysuckle.
I have lost my sentiment kicking at a hay pile
that lumps again like something to burn, something
to stare through. I watch a striped cricket climb
a split rye stalk, and then jump away with its shadow
as slack as fog. My son is grown, and my father old.
The new owner has cut the pine hills and has a house
on the west edge, some other life begun, some place
where I see nothing much. The stars will have to shine
across another earth. And the early clouds will steal
their dry weather from the moonlight while we leave.
All evening, we are walking away like children
timed to a long silence together.

-refers from the phrase “Sure, I dream the old dreams” in Rose Auslander’s poem Hulk at 50

  1. Oh, I love this. Clyde Kessler, you are welcome to refer to my poems anytime!

  2. What a moment you have captured and given us a look at. I felt as though I was seeing the movie! Thank you!

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