PORTRAIT OF THE POET WITH BEDSORES AND BARS ON THE WINDOW
In the dream, he is home again—his mother
kneels in the garden, pulling roots, unfolding
soil damp and heavy as grief. Her father
sits beside her in his wheelchair—a tattered
field guide clutched between gnarled
fingers—singing Sinatra in a cracked
baritone, naming birds as they flit overhead:
wood thrush on a low branch, sparrows
dipping from the pine. He watches
from the kitchen window as they drop bulbs
into earth, crocuses just beginning
to bloom, the day glistening so perfectly
he knows it will last forever. He is awakened
by the smell: ammonia, lilacs, the sour cling
of sweat sheets, the sensation of fingers
on linoleum—roots, dry earth. There was
no dream, of course, only a swallow
in the couryard, white oak slowly filling
with shadow; only the shuddering
of fluorescents under his door, a lock
on the outside; only an iron screen
bolted across his window, a memory
fading the way the sun does—hovering
just above a rooftop, slipping quietly
inward—the way a sparrow veers and
disappears into a slit in the sky, the way
a cage carves sunlight, silver starlings
irrupting across the tile floor.
Eric Christiansen is a poet from Waldwick, New Jersey, where he has lived for more than twenty years. After transferring from Grinnell College in Iowa, he received his B.A. in literature and creative writing from Ramapo College of New Jersey. Eric has been featured in such events as the Brick City Speaks reading series in Newark and attended the 2017 New York Writers Institute at Skidmore College. He hopes to hone his craft by pursuing an MFA and teaching at the college level.