Genre: Relationship, Family
From the Water by Allison J. Call
Like many of you, I burrow seasonal trenches
Up and down and through,
Weaving my way through the ideology
That tomorrow’s winter will ever be colder than today’s.
I prefer a Sunday dance around a newspaper
And a misty cup beside my father’s silence,
And I prefer the cold hands of a February morning
Tightening its delicate grip around
My most vulnerable.
I prefer all this, all this to what’s really.
My father counts one every year,
Because dawn is MY years old,
I control the seasons
And he couldn’t possibly die.
He is too wrong, too opposite of me.
Too set in his ways to let the ice grip him
As it grips me.
He’s too much my father to be a poet.
And he never told me that he was, and if he
NEVER told me he was, then
How can it be?
And outside, mint-mist fog ripples like a clock ticking
Wildly without a cog to push it
And without a hand to tell.
I come alone in the morning into the minty smoke
That has sky for veins.
I come alone on a Sunday
To count the drops of the lapping lake water
Or the warm, black metal tins along the edge of it.
In silence, war wears no coat and makes
War’s tangled colors are the ticking fog, the water, the tins,
The newspaper dance, the warm coffee.
War is my father whom I cannot define
And of whom I come from without definition or border.
From the water I come virginal, frozen.
From the water I come a bastard, an orphan,
I come from my father but I am not my father.
I am the water.
The morning light water.
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