PAPA'S HAND

-for Abhi-

I can smell the liquor and
old cigarette smoke

on his hand bigger than my head
that can cup me to sleep
or bash me.

Veins blue as violets
doubled-jointed fingers

filth settled under the nails
and knuckles that shine with fat rings.

Look how
life lines, weird as canals on the moon
bisect the dust bowl of his palm.

A finger summons me
and I must come.

MAKING POETRY

Now the sun's blood-soiled clothing
stains the hills
west of here

I can contemplate silence
blessed with exceptional gifts

configure stars
over our rough house
and a moon to swing
like a pearl earring.

Then our children would sleep.
I shall write into these words
a resonance

make poetry in the
accumulating dark.

THE BOOK

Something in the book
other than silverfish,
the perfume of dried flowers
makes it heavy as memories.

Breaking the spine
reading the script

is like the salt tang of sea
in your nostrils,
heady, unforgettable.

For decades I've opened you
illicitly,

when voices of my elders
rioted in the room below

chanted sentences over
till they had the grain,
the warmth of a heavy wood
and fell surer than my years.

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