1. Notes on my Fatherâ€™s Voice. AM. The voice of my father He is a tall dust I speak to in the mornings He is my lesson on how a body is peopled A sieve through which I braid my fear running wild
Parade of names for the vanished Certainly, this is a nervous love.
His family has a tradition of dying in their sleep As if death could be anything but hysterical When he was young was he afraid Through what ritual did he try to break the strangeness As now I seek To elide the distance And take us back into a residence of familiar skin.
The question of what is inherited Sleeping in the blood and moving Like luggage passed between trains. Is this his?
The desire to escape The catalog Of my time and body And the calendar Of days ignobly dead Buried in silt.
I havenâ€™t seen the house where he is living But I know the walls are bare.