are wrapped in snow. My father is ink falling

in tiny blossoms, a bottle

wrapped in a paperbag. I want to believe

that if I get the story right

we will rise, newly formed,

that I will stand over him again

as he sleeps outside under the church halogen

only this time I will know

what to say. It is night &

it’s snowing & starlings

fill the trees above us, so many it seems

the leaves sing. I can’t see them

until they rise together at some hidden signal

& hold the shape of the tree for a moment

before scattering. I wait for his breath

to lift his blanket

so I know he’s alive, letting the story settle

into the shape of this city. Three girls in the park

begin to sing something holy, a song

with a lost room inside it

as their prayerbook comes unglued

& scatters. I’ll bend

each finger back, until the bottle

falls, until the bone snaps, save him

by destroying his hands. With the thaw

the river will rise & he will be forced

to higher ground. No one

will have to tell him. From my roof I can see

the East River, it looks blackened with oil

but it’s only the light. Even now

my father is asleep somewhere. If I followed

the river north I could still

reach him.

Salt

A woman stands before us a man drowning in her poem

she reads    I’m tired of writing about fishermen

a man in front fights sleep    his arms folded his eyes

a doll’s    eyes slowly closing    until his head

whiplashes the air    rousing he

focuses on one word    the word salt

until his chin drops again to his chest    I think

this is how my father moves through life

drifting off    then righting himself    a few lucid moments

maybe a week    standing outside a building he once lived in

searching his pockets for the key    The poet whispers

the ocean is always looking for a way into your boat

the sea lifts itself    everyone    thrown overboard

the man’s head breaks the surface    just long enough for a mouthful

then back under    the overwhelming silence beneath the waves

It could be me    up there    my father drowning in his chair

I could stand before him all night    trying to find one

word    precise    a rock slipped into his open mouth

to weigh him under    away

Sunday

Scrape

the ashes from the windows, burn something

in a bowl. In another city

my father rises from his stone mattress,

his vinyl bag a tourniquet

knotted to his wrist. Like oil

fingers leave on doorknobs, sweat

on a cold bottle.

The blue heart on the stove wavers,

the water that fills the kettle comes from a mountain

I’ve never seen. Steam

from the shower mingles with this steam, your kisses

dissolve from my chest.

Those fingerprints on the formica, I

keep opening the refrigerator, hoping for something

overlooked, edible.