Photographs
My sister thinks
they’re a way
for him
to live in the past
but I think
it's an attempt
to rewrite it:
every inch
of wall space
taken up
by my smile
and hers,
by Jamie's
and Maya's
and Violet's.
Even his siblings
make an appearance
in the hall
as if
their falling out
was fiction.
We don't
come over often.
When we do
I'm struck
by how sad
it is
to see myself
as a boy —
my left
front tooth
browning
in the light,
every dollar
I'd saved
lifted
from the shoebox
I didn't think
to hide —
as my own
son shakes
the city
I grew up in
until snow
swirls
around it
and I picture
my father
listening
at my door
to make sure
I was asleep.
The Same Man
He's been good all year
when our entrées come out
like a reward
for reinvention
and he finally says
what he's always said —
that his life wouldn't
be worth living
without us
which is another way
of saying
he'd kill himself
if not for the few
hours each week he gets
to play hide
and seek with my
son, who always
picks the same spot
behind the couch,
laughing as my father
walks right past him
nailing the part
of the duped
like he was born
to disappoint everyone
but his grandchildren,
born to spoil them
and hold them,
to caw like a crow
one minute and rumble
like a vintage yellow
motorcycle the next,
$45,000 in debt
and a new gun
in the safe.
The same man
who mastered the art
of making
my mother cry
and left me
a set of his keys
so I'd be the one
to find him
in the bathroom
of his second floor walk-up
on Main, to search
for a pulse and put
both hands
to his chest,
trying to remember
how deep to go,
how soon to breathe,
how often I tried
to convince him
to stay. Even the night
of my wedding,
even now
I pitch therapy
and a summit
with each sibling
he's told off,
order a dessert
I'm too embarrassed
to maul the name
of, pointing to it
with a smile
our waiter almost
forgives and agreeing
when my father leans
into the candlelight
to say We can
tell each other anything,
can’t we? My mind
going to that year
in college I stood
outside the dorm
my new friends
were partying in,
trying to decipher
what I was hearing
over the phone —
the wind chimes
on the back deck
going wild, his two
untrained dogs
barking, the chamber
opening, the chamber
closing, something
about why I had to be
so far away.
Where We Land
Hurt I’ve asked him
to stop showing up
two hours early,
he tries not
to look at me
when I open the door
and succeeds.
If the newborn’s
down for a nap,
it's the toddler
he goes to.
If the toddler’s
asleep, too,
it's our forgotten
dog he serenades,
asking how her week
has been and
Did you miss
me as much
as I missed
you? In therapy
I’m asked
if I felt safe
as a child.
In my living
room, my father’s
the patron saint
of fun — better
than I am
at make believe
and building
whole cities
out of the blocks
my sister
handed down.
Sometimes I wonder
if he's been
letting himself in
when I'm at work,
looking out
from my desk
at the leaves
waiting like children
to be picked up
and fixated
on the poem about
the dead man
float and the one
about my mother
as a punchline.
Often I find
myself stuck
on this image
of him opening
his dresser drawer
to show me
everything I'd
inherit when he was
gone — confused
I didn't seem excited
and nudging me
to pick something
I could keep
in my room
to begin
remembering him by.
When it's just
the two of us —
Victoria managing
to get both boys
in a bath
before bed —
we don't know
what to say
or how much space
to give: my father
searching the photos
on the fridge
to see if I’ve added any
of him back
while I kneel
by another basket
of warm clothes
and fold them
like my mother
folded ours, rehearsing
what she’d do
when she was free.
