The Fictive Life

Since poetry says so, I bring my father back from the dead and then my mother with her broken laugh. My brother, gone since infancy, he comes along, though not in human form, he’s like the northern lights. “There’s nothing to be astonished about,” I tell them. “Let’s leave off where we were.” So we fall together like leaves in wind and sweep across the velvet ditch of fictive life—you know, the one we imagined we’d live and live.

 

One thought on “The Fictive Life

  1. Wonderful, Stephen. I’ve reached an age when such shimmers are more real to me than my daily commerce here in our kingdom of “bang and blab,” to quote Roethke.

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