March 27, 2010My Father’s Painting
Three boats head east toward/div>
the docks, another to sea,
two figures aboard,
as the sun brushes its dusky
violet on the wakes and trails,
my father’s signature a buoy
in the water. He hasn’t sailed
as long as I can remember, though
I heard him mention once a failed
attempt at the Cape, how the air grew
quiet then still as they floated
into night, waiting for a tow.
Not yet my mother or father,
their laughter must have turned to fear
as they slipped further and further
into dusk, their dock disappeared
from memory and lights began
blinking the same in the distance.
And what might they have said then
to one another, those two near
strangers, staring at a sun
halved by the far rim of earth,
knowing they were subject to the same
tide and stale air, the day’s breath
failing them, awkwardly framed
side by side in their skiff,
drifting out to sea like a name?
from #22 - Winter 2004