Father, one summer I was seven,
on a Sunday, the usual day
for miracles,
you held me and my brother
all afternoon
slapping the river.
Told us to open our eyes underwater
and not to be afraid. There,
I saw the current combing your legs,
small and sturdy,
the tired legs of a barber.
Later you swam where it was deep
with us clinging to your neck
until you said let go,
knowing that we wouldn't sink.
At dusk we drove back to town
and didn't tell you how much water
we had swallowed all day,
how we felt the slice of moon
tickling our bellies,
a barber's razor knocking softly
against your head, your profile
of stone a calm fist
against the night
and all the hands that held it.
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Slapping the river...great imagery throughout this piece. This brought back a warm memory - I don't have a whole helluva lot of those. And the ending, made me think of keeping those memories alive
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