shadow puppets

my grandfather used to throw them
from the loving lines of his fingers
   onto a blank wall
(to our utter delight)
             in the irregular light
of candles on simple summer nights
   when electricity took leave

you never got me
    was that a bird?
    was that a face?
parts of me kept sticking out
parts of me kept hiding
  i was formless
or you weren't empty enough
to see

i used to laugh
but it hurt
hurt
that i could not
contort myself
into any meaning
for you
you who lived
in light and darkness
but never played
in between

back then i could
   touch the feathers
on his flying bird hands
   look into the eyes
of his grim knuckled face
and climb the branches
    of his sprawling  palm    tree