M. S. Conroy
The Statue

Grandfather was first to see him,
light pouring out
from inside the boy’s jeep
at dawn in mid-November, when deer-hunting
air blows from the floor of the forest
smelling so crisp and cold.

He saw the statue of his nephew
all bundled in wool, arms raised like a criminal
from behind the glass,
two weeks from when the boy’s
father forced him from the walls of his home,
smelling of warmth and mothballs.

When he opened the door,
the fingers of that scent gripped
the hairs in his nose and tapped against
his brain. He took off his glove and felt,
with the back of his hand, the naked flesh of the
statue, blood frozen like the sap of a pine in December
--no, the prodigal son would not return to those
walls made from the forest harboring still, mothball air.

My grandfather saw the statue in a tie,
dressed for the home of the father
from inside a box,
three days later, when the deer-hunting air blew
from the floor of the forest,
smelling of mothballs.

Grandfather swore to the statue
with his silent eyes
from inside his chest vowing,
in mid-November, that he would always take
his children inside his walls as they lowered the statue
inside the floor of the forest in mid-November,
the walls of the earth so crisp and cold.