shadow puppets

My grampa used to throw them
from the lines of his fingers
onto a blank wall, to my utter delight,
in the irregular light of candles
on simple summer nights
when electricity decided
to take up and leave.

Far later one other for whom
I took myself upon to contort
(whether to entertain
or out of necessity )

and for whom in my every protrusion
and tuck-under, I still remained formless
(neither angel
nor batwing)

kept me in comfort and kept me fearing
that he was one found either
in only-light
or only-darkness

and never in between;
so I left for a stretch
making like a five-point star
and did not return.

Back then I could touch the feathers
on my grampa’s flying bird hands,
look into the eyes of his grim knuckled face
and climb the branches of his
sprawling
palm
tree.