Mount Nebo

The last morning I saw you
on Skype, tornados
in Joplin tore
a grandmother in blue
from the earth.
You asked if I was safe
here. I sat on my fingers
and fought my eyes
darting between the screens
of you and me
trying not to miss a thing.

Mr. Rocket could watch
a child's mind
movie reeling
like a fickle light bulb
and call it spunk.
In his third grade, I met
imagination as pet caterpillars
in brief recesses.
I once asked Mr. Bathroom
to use the rocket
and he nodded
my reddening cheeks
backward into a grin.

Moses may be buried here,
gnarled and orange
like the metal crucifix
by new Orthodox construction.
I hoped for secrets
covered in ghost prints
before I came here
to a hill with thorny weeds.
Now the earth's axis
is a wood staff
my fingers
squeeze of snakes
and Skype time differences.

Before I ever imagined
Moses's desire as deep,
visible and lonely
I tied your hands
to a kitchen chair
and everywhere
except your black hair
seemed pixelated
and bright
in a performance
not easily remembered
or left secret.

I often wonder if a God
kept Moses to die
on this mountain
crippled or starved
or weakened in spirit
and if Moses gazed
to honey and green trees
or if he crouched
in a Bedouin cave
with baying donkeys
and reflecting pictures.

When Mr. Rocket is arrested,
his mug shot
makes permanent
the smart round glasses
and brown beard
of third grade
memory. I want to snip
away the hard mouth
and Photoshop in his kind smile
the first time he read
my fledgling block-letter story
of young octopi glory
in sixteen-legged races
and said, ah-ha
here's a dreamer.

I imagined this mountain
as a source of truth
before I came here
and met its sheep bells
echoing across a yellow view.
On Mount Nebo,
the mysteriousness
of a God, a teacher or a man
is just a feeling
I sift happily
through my fingers
like sand.