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, but also
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 the 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
we 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
version 2
so many ways our fathers mark us
each syllable of bone, phrasing of flesh
the way our bodies express themselves
upturned bracket of a smile, first lick of questions
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, the silences
we learn to steal from beneath their long hours
finding our own stained grammar in the wood-ash
of their passing, heaving the smoking axes on our tongues
as the shadowy wings behind our mothers
breath to her body, possessors we dispossess
reminder also that memory turns to seed
and form is the dream and the absence of wholeness
in beatings and beratings, in carefully counted cane-strokes
which sting on my thigh twenty years after their fading
were you never good enough? he is never good enough for himself
mortality is the first time you see your father cry
when you put your arm around his shoulder and he accepts it
he may bring you fishing. dancing. white-water rafting
he may give you that much of his youth that is left
he may tell you the names of angsana, balsam, cherry blossom, papaya
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
what Yeats called the rag and bone shop of the heart
he takes his place among the harried shopkeepers, the angels
and fallen kings, the sleeping heroes and carpenters
often we mark our fathers down
we put down the book and he is there
eyes on an elsewhere outside of you
or he is rumble and grunt in an upstairs bedroom
the snort of a saw in the backyard, kitchen chortles
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
version 1
so many ways our fathers mark us
each syllable of bone, phrasing of flesh, the way our bodies express themselves, upturned bracket of a smile, first lick of questions
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, the silences we learn to steal from beneath their long hours, finding our own stained grammar in the wood-ash of their passing, heaving the smoking axes on our tongues
as the shadowy wings behind our mothers, breath to her body, possessors we dispossess, reminders also that memory turns to seed, and form is the dream and the absence of wholeness
in beatings and beratings, in carefully counted cane-strokes which sting on my thigh twenty years after their fading
were you never good enough? he is never good enough for himself
mortality is the first time you see your father cry. when you put your arm around his shoulder and he accepts it
he may bring you fishing. dancing. white-water rafting. he may give you that much of his youth that is left
he may tell you the names of angsana, balsam, cherry blossom, papaya. 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, what Yeats called the rag and bone shop of the heart
he takes his place among the harried shopkeepers, the angels and fallen kings, the sleeping heroes and carpenters
often we mark our fathers down. we put down the book and he is there, eyes on an elsewhere outside of you
or he is rumble and grunt in an upstairs bedroom, the snort of a saw in the backyard, kitchen chortles
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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