Message in a Bottle to My Son
Every day the world ends
through habit, safe in the arms
of an overplayed song
under a tattered sky's brocade.
Walls become whale bones,
sparrows scatter from displaced eaves.
Between washed up dross, only wind.
Take the empty space from every atom
of every person, stone, ocean,
and what's left might fill
a few chuckling dice.
It's a wonder how heavy
nothing weighs. It's a wonder
we don't fly apart into dust.
Not enough sky in my bed to sleep
I unzip the street on its dotted line
and throw fallen stars back to heaven.
Take them back, take it all back,
the night's heat and dust and stagnant air
this pall that blows headlights to blanks
and horizons to none. My own silence
so anticipated and yet so sudden.
No one mentioned this unnumbered stage,
a final doubling from last year to now —
when it happened, will have always happened,
and everything I thought packed away.
Missing you remains both fact and act
I fall forwards instead of down, like a plane.
Born and raised in the US, Yoni Hammer-Kossoy currently lives in Israel and when not writing, pays the bills as a software engineer. Yoni's poetry is forthcoming or has most recently appeared in Forage Poetry, Muddy River Poetry, Gyroscope Review, Dime Show Review, the American Journal of Poetry, and Songs of Eretz Poetry where he is a featured contributor. You can also catch up with Yoni on Facebook, or Twitter @whichofawind