Murray Moulding

Robin Hood

He couldn't help it you know.
You mustn't for a minute think this is noble.
He had a son who curved away from the light.
Nobody knew. On his way to bed each night
he would leave something on the stoop.
In the morning it would be gone.
Nobody knew. Lights going out was the signal.
There in the darkness by the kitchen door
he would pause, holding what--a glass of
milk, a crust of bread, a dove?
You couldn't see, in the darkness.
Upstairs the air conditioner running
made a plate on the wall beside him buzz,
and after while he would forget.
Darkness for him was a solvent
and he would dissolve and be everywhere,
the bow string burning his fingers.
All arrows traveled from ache to ache.
In between was Marion, warm and
secret, shaping him in the darkness
like a pocket. Just once he wanted
to be kissed by his son. In the morning
outside on the stoop, who could tell they
were seeing evidence?

Murray Moulding writes: I teach writing at Red Rocks Community College, in Denver, and have published fiction in Kansas Quarterly, Mississippi Valley Review, Viva, and elsewhere. Poetry is forthcoming in Zuzu's Petals, Melic Review, Free Cuisenart, and has recently appeared Poetry Café, as well as the print journals Buffalo Bones and The Rock. I've taught writing in colleges in Illinois, Montana, Oregon, and Colorado.