Ross Gay
THE POET DREAMS OF HIS FATHER
who is naked, and stretching
his hip flexors,
who is yogic, in fact,
as a phantom
string pulls the top of his bald head straight
into heaven. Sinking
into this posture, he tells me to rub his flanks,
which I do.
It's safe to assume
the father didn't see this return coming. Maybe
he'd twist back as cologned wind or light
dappling a steeple of trees.
Or entering dreams, he'd whisper
something about the gold ribbon spinning through
shadows, leave us
clutching the warmth.
But look closely. The body
(see the tell-tale scar zipping
the hip, the second toes' broken necks) is the poet's.
The poet's
as much as the father's. Which is to say, breath
braided to air. The distance
between us. Dust
on the tip of my tongue.
