to my father
My father’s hands flew into a thick smoke—a faint light.
What did I dream then, the child drowning in the picture? light light,
rivers of falling honey, purple berries. What did I need?
imagine my body, stability in immigration? I wanted to find the light.
Dawn sank into my hands like rain. I wanted to melt
& ask God to reveal my face. I wanted to talk lightly
& watch the world land. Every splash of wilderness
unfolded in clean, solid lines. From there I would leak light.
From there I would fly, my body limp and limp
in this chaotic field. But in the dark mouth of the night
the light still trembled. Earth and its oblique
tilt. Every day I arrived and arrived. The light of my body,
my sharp mouth. With prayer I go inside
Those weeks I lie rooted. Flood my cheek, light
travel on all skins: I learn to find pleasure
in uncertainty. Teach me your technique, light.
Wait for it to come to youI heard it once in the car. O radiance
danger, I’m ready. Give me your mystery, light.
Untouched by the fire, my father now shakes his hair
which suddenly grows to its full height, shining—an ancient light.
