Ebion Again, Upside Down
There’s a stretch of trees I walk through,
and every time it’s dark,
I see Ebion passing by above.
Pushing an upturned walker
(he calls it the Cadillac)
he paces his way closer and closer,
attached by the ankles to the dark granite sky.
I’m a paper doll
highly subject to gravity,
standing here on the gum-studded sidewalk.
Naturally, when the lid of the Cadillac’s seat
opens like the dropped jaw of a laundry chute,
his cardigan (stored there everyday)
floats down between parted leaves.
I remember the empty space, pinchable
between the fabric of his sweater and his withered shoulders,
when he was still here.
I simply lift my arms
and shout Merci, hoping
my voice makes it past hearing aids and atmosphere,
as the cardigan fits over my hands and head.
We will meet again for the first time soon.
For now I am warm.
