By Kazim Ali
My father's silence I cannot brook. By now he must know I live and well.
My heart is nickel, unearthed and sent. We are a manmade catastrophe.
Unable to forgive, deeply mine this earthly light that swells sickly inside.
Like wind I drift westward and profane when the doors of ice slide open.
While he prays my father swallows the sickle moon, its bone sharp path spent.
Preyed upon by calendars of stone unbound the nickel of the mountain in streams.
Mine this awful empty night. Mine this unchiming bell, his unanswered prayers.
Mine the rain-filled sandals, the road out of town. Like a wind unbound this shining river mine.
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Tuesday was a rainy, chilly work-and-chore day -- writing, several laundries, a bit of shopping -- ending with a post-sunset orange sky so gorgeous that I had to take a walk when it was nearly dark. I don't have a lot to report otherwise, other than a slight weather headache that made me foggy through much of the afternoon (note: looking at meteor photos with incipient migraine can cause really dramatic effects).
Younger son has an early dentist appointment Wednesday so can sleep a bit late, so we all watched Real Steel together. Like Battleship, it has a completely predictable script, plus the most product placement I have ever seen in a movie, but the cast is pretty adorable and it's pretty well directed, so we enjoyed it. Then I watched Smash, which is losing me a bit more every week, even the characters I liked last year. Fort Stevens on Sunday:
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