father daughter

Doing I love you

My father’s tears never fell too far from his eyes.
A well-kept secret
like catching shade
on a white-hot day.
His handkerchief would stop them before
cheeks were aware of their existence
the same cloth he used to

clean his car
mop up blood
smear sweat
wrap around a broken finger
collect glass shards.

This colossus of stone and brick-dust coughs
guarded emotions
the way thorns
protect their buds.
His fingers; blunt and blackened tools
spoke without words, worked without rest
and so I was taught to

change a tire
walk with keys in my fist
locate fire escapes
watch over nesting birds
untangle leads.

Something occasional about a hug
recast into clenches from an old man
who finds it hard
to let go.
Goodbyes without end, his hand
pauses time and lies heavy on my shoulder
together we choose to

fold back memories
take care
listen through spaces
muffle troubled thoughts
do I love you.

drift fall winter

These Days

So this is how it is;

riddled through with human holes

enough to sink this ship

you’ll need a place to hide

winter out the bad days.

Slow down.

Count the blinks of a dozing cat.

Shelter beneath wings of gulls

themselves caught mid-flap.

Watch a spider retreat into

her curled-up leaf, sing the lullaby

of an earth-tombed cicada.

Become a lost thing – misplaced

among trodden weeds and pavement cracks.

Cozy up with dust balls swept into corners,

or swirl your way around knots and grains in wood.

Creep like moss, sit still with ghosts

drift through your sad days.

Nest.

Be the last Babushka doll in line.

You can fold into an origami shape

or fall between words on a

well-thumbed page,

settle into rhythms that weave and sew -

This yarn has no end.

Rootless, you’ll find peace in receding

waves of foam, strength behind

tumbling breakers. Hollow out an olive

take on its weight of stone

float with shadows westward-blown

weather-well life’s mad days

scar tissue

Scar tissue

If you could see the one across my right breast

you’d think it was a smile,

a puckered white curve like the crescent of a moon

stitched tightly to the fabric of my flesh.

It might be drawn by the tip of a pirates’ sword

or so my son once told me.

The villain aimed to pierce my beating heart

missed his spot and left a scarlet slash

vivid as a raspberry ripple streak

in our favourite ice-cream.

If you could touch them, the skin would shiver

recalling fears like claws of black-winged birds

perched upon my shoulders

singing their familiars.

If you could hear them.

They’d speak a fragile kind of sorrow

slowly turning corners.

Not a scream but a hush.

Not a flame but a flicker.