Archives for posts with tag: Fatherhood

You have taken her further than Mom would,
now, her giggles are sneezes and tears.
I look up from my book and see you splash,
trying to scare the voracious horse fly
away from your little girl (and you.) You hold
her high, duck completely beneath the water,
come out and turn her like a piece of fine art,
one hundred and eighty degrees left, then right,
to make sure some damn fly isn’t feasting on her.

Now, in the shallows, you hold her
in your arms—she pushes you and you fall
so slowly, so surely, it as if you collapse
just for her, as she scrambles on top of you
to hug you.

I am a greater, and lesser, man than my father —

greater that I am the result of his wishes, the changes
and improvements I made to him; lesser because
of his achievements, his fierce life, all I do not know
about him, his black hair aflame; after my bath he

would lift me, weightless, in his arms, a moment
he gave to me that I will always hold, free, time
less how it resonates, how in his arms I yearned;
how in his arms I learned how a father loves, how

a man holds his son.

What arrives on a shell
of new blown shit, piss,
pain and blood, is the
treasure men seek, in deep-buried
chests told in tales of pirates
ruthless and brave, ferocious,
on a sea that makes no allies.

The eye drowns in saltwater,
the breeching of the ocean terrifies—
a father is carried away by a tide
that consumes so completely
he cannot measure its depths.

That is why a father cannot resist
the sloppiest tear jerkin’ hollywood hurter,
because now he will believe any myth;
some things are eternal,
some stories are told,
again, and again.

All things pass but this:
all things must be destroyed,
endless dust be unbroken,
rivers come to an end,
deserts surround the sea;
a father cries because he sees these things
and knows the promise is made to be kept—
he must smile, and keep to himself the tears;
these are only stories he was told.

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