by Rachel Rueckert
A question for my godson
Did you sense
a chill before you ascended that ladder
your pupils growing in the barn light
your child hand gripping rail
careful to avoid a splinter
careful to not look
down—
Tell me
what you saw from the cupola
orange-reds flaring
on distant mountains
bandaged bails
of hay fermenting
the misty fog
before the rush
of dusk—
I have to know
What you heard
if not
the snap of a board as you
took that little step
on bowing wood
your frantic breath
the wind whistling
as you flew
past stripes of oak
and cross beams—
Or was it an absence
of sound as you placed
a sure foot
behind you into
sky—
I have to know
What you felt
as your back smacked earth
thirty feet below
eyes clamped open
cries far away but still
here still your own
able to wiggle all your toes
hear your father’s thundering
steps his wild prayers—
What did you think
at that moment of your good father
who’d dared you to climb a little higher:
no winning smile
no armpit tickles
no efforts to hide the hole left
by his excavated faith
a question raw and opened
every day that you rise—
I have to know
What is a miracle?
RACHEL RUECKERT is an MFA candidate at Columbia, where she also teaches Contemporary Essays. Her work has appeared in River Teeth, The Maine Review, Hippocampus, Points in Case, The Carolina Quarterly, Sweet, Tupelo Quarterly, The Literary Review, Columbia Journal, Roads & Kingdoms, and others. She serves as the Editor in Chief of Exponent II and is hard at work on several book projects. Twitter @Rachel_Rueckert ; Website rachelrueckert.com.
Photo: “Morning light” by Carter Brown
Psaltery & Lyre 