The Golem

The cut looks like a comet’s tail,
and stalks there on my forearm
all dried out now after cleaning it
and waiting.
A robin with one eye
scarfs red berries down
from the tree outside the window
just above our kitchen sink.

I remember my old friend,
when we were kids,
stacking broken bricks
into the rough shape
of a human and calling it a golem.
Even clearer still I hear his sister
upstairs practicing violin scales
so she would know
what all the notes needed
to sound like.

The bird flies away
like a traveler throwing
a hood over his head
and walking off somewhere.
I am lucky to be standing
in the warm light of this memory
than to be out there fighting
all alone hollow bones
and beak against the sky.