For Maurice Sendak

You’d sit on that rat eaten chair
in the kitchen at night writing Rachel
and Adulterous Woman better parts.
They’d wear dark oceans of mascara
in your hands & look right streal 
or prance naked in forest moonlight
to drink water with deer. 

I’d follow your hoof prints to Haha 
on the hill to visit the folks & you’d wash
 your hands in the stream
before you go---& oh, looking back,
 how your silver hair caught
 the wind and swam like a school
of minnows. 

After the doughboys go on the stew
you’d sit in your chair, close your eyes
to Mozart and sigh, & I know, you love
Mozart with all your heart.  My burly kiss
on your brow.  Again, in bed I heard the door 
click. 

You’d prowl the night til the sky
went periwinkle, coming home from the
funkhole whispering, “I can speak worm now.”

But at night I don’t wonder where my love is,
if you’re hanging Dickinson from the trees
in your dringle-way or draining the heel-taps
from the table-- because one night I woke, 
& I saw you springing over the mountains.

© Matthew Walsh