so many ways our fathers mark us
(for kirpal and christopher)
so many ways our fathers mark us
each syllable of bone, phrasing of flesh
the skin we put on, a way of letting our fathers speak
through and for us, with each other,
always a hair's breadth away from refusal
and later the heft and weight of language,
oar and rudder on the palate, finding our own
stained grammar in the wood-ash of their passing
heaving their smoking axes on our tongues
as the shadowy wings behind our mothers
reminders also that memory turns to seed
in beatings and beratings, in carefully counted cane-strokes
which sting on my thigh twenty years after their fading
he may tell you the names of angsana, balsam, cherry blossom
he may teach you the meaning of bereft
you may never become him
though you spend your life running to catch up
already he is in the distance, waving with his arms
(which you think beckon you forward): go elsewhere
each year you reach less to kiss him
there is less fur to tug at, and more snow
each year he takes one more step into the storehouse of images
he takes his place among the harried shopkeepers, the angels
and fallen kings, the sleeping heroes and carpenters
often we mark our fathers down
you put down the book and he is there
eyes on an elsewhere outside of you
only when you nudge the door open on an empty room
do you truly hear him
the dust whispers it; your footsteps form the vowels
every day you relearn his name
as you clear your throat to speak
26 January 2004 19:30 hours
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