To Oppen

whose name escaped the sign, the
stranded star that scars
night’s body. Shining just as bright

as skylit eyes, you’re peeling open and

I in silence can only point toward
your pointing. Darting away
who will find my arm embedded in the trees

felled to make the bird alight?
Who will find the swift tiger we write
to loose and propel and be

propelled by haunches sprung as wolfen wings?
Who can see the single ashen bird
in the dust of Father’s arms beating

Father, who will fear not your fearful sheen
and peel our fingers from our nails
and nails from our teeth.

Joseph Bradshaw (© 2009)