Elián Iré

Son, last night I stood in the middle of street, lit
a cigarette, watched the moon hide behind some clouds,
then I willed her back out again—This will do nothing
for you long term. Tonight, I’m hiding behind my cigarette.
Not even the moon could will me to move
like a cloud. I’m anxious to see you grow
out of my shadow. The first time you stood up
I howled or I wailed, then you fell and I could not will you
back up again. So, I held you, laughing, like a maniac.
Since then, I can look at clouds all day and night,
mean mug them to death— They can’t touch you.
Rain, on the other hand, is rainy to the touch.
(What’s good, metaphor?) Son, the first thing you pointed at
was not the moon, and you didn’t call it that.