the father

walking naked // in the cold morning air // shameless // as a body that knows nothing // but love

self-portrait, bad_french

the father

given at birth the kiss 
of an ax’s edge

and given no other place 
to land it

he began the work of felling 
each lovely 

limber limb reducing 
his body’s potential 

to a low and known 
stump | hard

useful | of a kind
so no one questioned 

the ax when it continued 
to land making 

the whole forest of us 
firewood 

each log of obvious 
and immediate use 

the oak for its long burn
into the night

the birch equipped with bark
to start the fire

cedar to mask the smell 
of what was burning

the ax for its part 
was whet on his lips 

those 45-degree angles 
made to act 

as stone | better that they sharpen
and sand all futures

than be another pink 
thing tender in the sea 

better if the forest must burn 
to be already

a stump | a stone | low
and so very 

smaller than 
the full-blown tree 

of his red lips 
of his mother’s 

high heels 
of walking naked

in the cold morning air 
shameless 

as a body that knows nothing
but love | here

in my hands is the father
flesh and subtle 

and willing | in his old age 
tears come

like so many wasted 
suns quit

crying he says
refraining the small 

song he was sung into
we have lied to ourselves
 

---

I’m doing a good job. You’re doing a good job.

-bad_french