Michael on My Shoulders

I know the wind that blows us all
has set you softly down, that rips
the roofs of ragged men was kind
to your blue eyes. It has a gentle
beat beneath its bluster, a sympathetic
soul among the angry swirls that turn
wood to splinters, blood to wax, hearts
to holes. It gave its breath and brawn
to you, and

you

were the hurricane who flooded
my creeks, twisted my sore back
as I walked the woods of Jersey,
picked needles from the bending
pines. You were there, reached
high for the mockingbirds, wanting
only their small wind. Their song

was theirs to keep, to call to mates
and sing to foxes because you would
not take what wasn't yours. I wore
the wisdom of your whispers as you
bounced upon my shoulders, as your
hands covered my eyes and you laughed
that I would cry over your grave
like a boy, small and broken, rub
the stone so you touched me and I
felt your air, your reaching fingers,
and they were mine.

Patrick Carrington was born and raised in the boroughs of New York City. He teaches language arts and creative writing in southern New Jersey and lives on a secluded beach with his wife and the ocean they love. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in various print journals, including Confrontation Magazine, Epicenter, Bardsong, Clark Street Review, Devil Blossoms, Lullaby Hearse, Poetry Motel, and Willard & Maple, and on-line at Rock Salt Plum Review, Slow Trains Literary Journal, Adagio Verse Quarterly, Facets Magazine, Carnelian, Artistry of Life, Clean Sheets, mannequin envy, Thieves Jargon and Zygote in My Coffee.