Open palms dance leaves
Past searching glances.
He touches his eyes,
Pulls them out this way, that way,
Stirs them into stones,
He is alone.
The finger leaves are now the grass
His right hand kneels into,
Face turned heavenward—
He does not tell the story,
He is the story.
Points of light are placed
Just out of reach,
Hovering
Until the sun sets on the boy
And God is in his hands.
He speaks.
I hear him.
Ethan Unklesbay is a stay-at-home dad and Mormon poet based in Utah. He writes and posts a poem (almost) every day on his Substack, and has produced two privately printed collections so far, Signs and Wonders and Portrait of an Ecclesiastic. His work has also been published in Wayfare. He loves his wife, his kids, and his e-bike.
