Ansel Elkins

Before written language,
before helmets of blood, I was wind-carved
in the world. We walked through Obsidian
Valley, my son’s moon-smooth  
face upturned toward the night sky.
We held time and nothingness
in our eyes. I sang out beyond the sea
of stars. I bore his body of shining stone,
a revision of bone.  
Mountains came before us, mothers
and aunts, long before our eyes knew starlight,
before eyes.  
Beyond Earth we look up, we stargazers.

All our pretty sons on the playground
running in bright colors, their high, bright voices ringing out.
Now the slides, now climbing, now leaping from swings.
They’re wonder-struck at the sight of
a green maple tree spilling its magic,
waving its arms at blue sky. They are so little, the language
of violence hasn’t yet entered them.
Older boys haven’t yet taught them how to be cruel.