I’ve learned so much from birds.
One hits a window, and the rest move on
as though they carry with them
no interior life. So I forget you
mostly, but you’re always there.
I ask myself, if I could ask
again, what I would ask
of you who, on the other hand,
have certainly moved on.
What was it like to diligently clean
the nuclear reactors? Did you trust
the accuracy of your dosimeter?
Can you describe the mask you wore
and your degree of confidence
in its filtration powers, its ability
to shield your delicate esophagus?
Were you accelerating something
when you smoked the small cigars at home
and joked about mutations, drinking
five or six beers, eating dinner,
calling it a day?
How much did you hear
when I was in the downstairs bathroom
on the day before the last day, thirty-three
and sobbing on the speckled floor, not one
of all the poems I had ever read
about the unavoidable departure
coming to me for a little balm?
I’ll tell you, I’ve been reading Jung,
and I believe more in the dream world,
the shamanic access. It has been so long
since I have seen you in the flesh
that sometimes, temporarily,
I think it’s possible
that you were never real,
that you’re a picturesque reflection
in a window that I try
with all my might to fly through.
John Popielaski is the author of several poetry collections, including most recently That Special Something from Sheila-Na-Gig Editions, as well as Attuning, a novel forthcoming from Broken Tribe Press. His poems have recently appeared in such journals as Canary, Common Ground Review, and Public School Poetry.