Where will you go my daughters,
to what distance of years beyond my years,
to what nights beyond my nights,
encountering what collapsed verandas
that have not yet been built,
what wrinkled, spotted hands
of trembling old men
whose bodies swoop now
through sunlit playgrounds?
Will you find that self
I've searched for
in the wreckage of my life
and never found?
Everything topples, everything sags
and slumps with a sigh, as if the years
were too much to carry, as if time were a burden
that makes us collapse.
And even you will be old and withered,
and ask your children
in a manner similar to this,
"Where will you go?"
I think of you both
on a high hill beneath the moon,
asleep now in a dark house,
filled with the last of my blood
glowing a milky blue
and spread like luminous roads
through the dark continents of your bodies
while the orange sun
inches up the far side of the hill
and your breaths slip,
slow and secret
from your lives.
My daughters, my lovely daughters,
where will you go?