Friday, February 17, 2012

Day 941: Father

i taught myself
at a young enough age
to turn the tone of your voice
into an embrace tangible enough to keep me still

in the evening
when the woman
in me is shaking
When the years between childhood and today are too heavy to carry
i put your record on a slow repeat
remind myself that our life works in rotation
in cycles
and that i will find myself near enough to you,
to call myself home

this is the kind of morning i am waiting for your voice
your early kitchen stumble
your coffee cracking confidence
this is the kind of morning
i need a reminder
need to remember that i am in your home
that i am a product of your love

when you send me poems you have written for my mother,
i cry
i can tell from the weight of your pen stains that the love you feel for her is the truest thing youʻve ever known
i want to be that sure someday
hold my love close enough to my chest that she begins to fall through me
i am reminded that you,
are like me in more ways than we have ever imagined
that we are both just trying to love the people around us
without exceeding our word limit

i wish there were a way
to say these words
but this is the kind of morning where mouths fall silence
when i lie awake
just waiting to hear the coffee grinder set the morning ablaze

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