Photo Credit: “Father’s Hand” by Gayle George

 

I.

My grandfather burned

 

a house down

when he was a kid,

my dad said,

when I was a kid.

 

His father’s father

was in the Klan.

 

Pale eyed and thin lipped,

I throw acorns.

 

White pearls and twin sets,

faded sheets, pointed hats.

 

 

II.

point, line, plane

 

the point   [*]

indicates a position

in space

 

the point  e x t e n d s,

becomes a line

length, direction, position

 

but I have no point, no position, this morning

I am barely awake

iced coffee is hardly working

 

I think of having pancakes with my father

drawing on Perkins placemats on Saturday mornings

him drawing, me drawing

 

the point

the line

the plane

 

wall     parting

 

 

 

III.

you, newly dead

 for my father

 

 

you, newly dead, still warm on the mattress

me still holding your hand, talking to you

as if you could still listen

 

as if I could still listen

to your steeltown childhood  rising from the mattress

Hungarian words hanging above you

 

my back is to the angel, hand hovering over you,

who asks you to listen

to salt on the mattress

 

a mattress of waltzing words;             you listen

 

 

 

Cara Armstrong lives in Northfield, VT, where she is the Director of the School of Architecture + Art at Norwich University.  She is the author and illustrator of Moxie the Dachshund of Fallingwater and the tri-lingual counting book Counting with Cats who Dream/Compte avec les Chats qui Revent/Contando con Gatos que Suenan.