Sunday, April 10, 2011
My sleepy papa slept on, piecemeal, lightly;
how, when I waited, when I picked up stones
I didn't break his still pond surface, soft and mossy.
He scratched me with his beard all rough, unclean, and gray.
He couldn't bring himself to shave, left himself messy.
And so I tell you, over and over, your face
is open, smooth, deliciously wrought on corners,
a dot-to-dot of spots, freckles here and there
handing me a pebble, to let me in
the algae dark and deep, till I fall.
My eyes, open underwater, see there
skeleton fish tails, roaming
orange duck feet treading water,
concrete and naked below the surface plankton.