To My Dead Father

Not many human eyes are blue.
My dad’s were, though,
and mine are too.

He made little mammal noises when he drew.
I do as well. I did just now –
remembering him coaching me –

with charcoal in his hand –
dismembering reality
in some mad vow to swell it into shady versions

we could understand.
He growled and mewed
as his soft carbon pencil prowled

around his manifesting point of view –
Da Vinci in a zoo.
But I won't sever our translucent ties

by trying to be clever.
What I can do is draw his eyes too large,
too blue, and saturate the paper

with the hue – careful to
suggest his tender gaze always engages him
elsewhere. Happy Father’s Day,

sweet dad, to you.


 
 
 
 
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