My child, in his room, is playing,
and I cannot tell whether he
is laughing or crying, but I will
not arise from my reading, for his joy,
as I imagine, over the leaves
of sycamore we found is his own,
and if his noise is the child's
grief, that, too, is his own. To be
truthful, I am afraid, that I can
no longer restore comfort out of pain.
Still, I know I will seek in the broad
ways whom my soul loves, and I
retrieve one trick I learned young,
so that I do rise and go. I mix
sugar milk and take paper and matches
into his room. "Here," I tell him,
"I have something to show you." With
the liquid, he traces circles
with his finger upon the paper, and I
lay my hand over his hand, to feel
the movement of what he has in mind.
The circles, I think, become smoother,
rounder, smaller. I say, "Okay,
let's let the paper dry," and
I return to my reading, and he
to his quieter play. And it is fear
again: how a father dreams of
the drowning child he can never save,
the child's face disappearing
in a swallow of silt, how a father
plays with combustible materials
and their traces--fire and ash--that
will leave nothing but the child's
tiny bones. It is fear because I know
my son will come to me, asking
if it is ready, and I will have
to say yes. I will light the match
beneath the paper, and from nothing
will appear maybe something like a face,
something like my own face,
fevered, blistered, blackening faster
than the paper, or the design becomes
my child's face in a cry or a laugh,
calling out someone else's name.
Even though I remember best
your hand that cups the back
of my neck toward you, remember
best your insistence that is
never virtual, your love makes
no difference--because I have
spent life climbing trees,
lacquered in ambient Idaho
light, petting all the bad
Dobermans in the neighborhood,
spitting for spit's sake,
diving head first, and looking
at all the pretty girls, new
and limbed in their bikinis,
their breasts open and watery
dreams, their ease so enviable
that I splash them, to hear
their shouts, their name-calling,
to see their bodies move,
to receive their looks, their
flushed and tanned faces.
Later I will fall somewhere
in the world, with no good place
to spit. I will fall as easy
as slipping into the coldest lake,
naked, midnight, immersing
fully, then surfacing, calling
for you to join me. I will
fall and slip into water,
letting it cover me with every
male glimmering light,
and the moon upon the surface
above me forever multiplying
and dividing. I will disappear,
holding my breath, waiting
for you to turn chicken
and call out my name, even
when you know better. I will
surface, laughing low, a little
cruel, and in the black, you
can see my smile, my teeth,
and I will raise my head and
cast forth from my mouth
a spout of water. I will disappear
with a kick, moving slow,
staying everything but my pounding
heart, as I find some
easy grounding, a siltless
landing, smoothed with night
pearls, fresh-water shells,
quick water, and above, this world
for you is calming, black,
the only stirring some wind,
a mist lowing upon the lake.
Write to the author:
