& close his eyes. His hair the shade
of its cracked flesh.
His right arm, inked with three falling
phoenixes--torches
marking the lives he had
or had not taken -- cradles
the pinkish snout. Its teeth
gleaming like bullets.
Huey. Tomahawk. Semi
-automatic. I was static
as we sat in the Nissan, watching waves
brush over our breaths
when he broke for shore, hobbled
on his gimp leg. Mustard
-yellow North Fave jacket
diminishing toward the grey life
smeared into ours. Shrapnel
-strapped. Bushwhacker. The last time
I saw him run like that, he had
a hammer in his fist, mother
a nail-length out of reach.
America. America a row of streetlights
flickering on his whiskey
-lips as we ran. A family
screaming down Franklin Ave.
ADD. PTST. POW. Pow. Pow. Pow
says the sniper. f** you
says the father, tracers splashing
through the palm leaves. Confetti
green, how I want you green.
Green despite the red despite
the rest. His knees sunk
in ink-black mud, he guides
a ribbon of water to the pulsing
blowhole. Ok. Okay. AK
-47. I am eleven only once
as he kneels to gather the wet refugee
into his arms. Waves
swallowing
his legs. The dolphin's eye
gasping like a newborn's
mouth. & once more
I am swinging open
the pa**enger door. I am running
toward a rusted horizon, running
out of a country
to run out of. I am chasing my father
the way the dead chase after
days -- & although I am still
too far to hear it, I can tell,
by the way his neck tilts
to one side, as if broken,
that he is singing
my favorite song
to his empty hands.