We were the first
among our neighbours
to get a dishwasher
it was my mom’s idea
an empty solution
to her feeling
overworked
under-appreciated-
she was
‘done with cooking
and washing dishes.’
My eager dad
got a good deal
on a Kenmore from Sears.
He ‘knew a guy’
that could
do the install
so
the peace was kept
and shushing assurances
were made
‘I’ll take care of it.
Don’t worry.’
He said.
Her gaze hardened.
His face flashed
fear like
that moment
of tension
just before the
last crank
of a jack in the box
we all waited
for some
release
but nothing popped.
This was much
worse.
The look
on my mom’s face
wasn’t worry
it fell somewhere
between
anger and disappointment
like she was
glimpsing the future.
Did she see her
new entitlement
still boxed
squatting in the
timeout
corner
a month from now?
Could she know
that it
would serve
only as
an extension
to our counter
for several years
before it’s wheels
were removed
it’s faux wood
top was unscrewed
and it took its
permanent
ornamental place
under counter?
Did she wonder
about
‘the guy’
my dad knew;
she knew
all the guys
that my dad
knew?
Was she scrying
that even
after the hoses
were connected
and the hydro
wired
that mustard yellow
dishwasher
would only
ever be filled
with cutting boards
and spare
Tupperware?
Was she
admitting to herself
that what she really
wanted more than
freedom from
her chores
was for
us to want
to help
and
that what we needed
was
more cupboard space
and
what we had
was hands enough
to clean the
dinner dishes
and no
volunteers
to help her?
dadhood
avoiding christmas in july
in this case
rain is welcome-
eventhough
it’s January.
wary and temperate
grey wet sky
makes
melt off,
this
makes lifting
power cords easier.
above freezing,
cords flex and wrap
kindly.
there’s
no crust
to keepsake
the twinkle
of seasonal shine.
no complaints
from
stiff fingers.
no black ice
to threaten
ladder footings.
even
a sudden declaration
of fair weather
like this,
a climate change
up
favouring
type-a personalities,
lionizes
my ego.
i refuse
to be
that guy,
the outlier
in July,
with
Christmas lights
competing
against
summer sunsets,
bonfires,
and fireworks.
some thoughts while building Ikea furniture
I want more poems
from men
doing common
things.
Unadorned.
Essential.
Hands, back,
brain, soul-
all engaged.
Dad details.
Brotherly soliloquies.
Sons raised into
story.
And story
projecting
more than
hearsay.
Men bringing
their thoughts
up and out
through thick
fragile skin,
constructing meaning,
like an artist
but with advice,
bits of wisdom
carried leaward
after falls
and fails.
Send me sonnets
made up of
head nods
and winks
from across
the room.
Give me
an ode
about
a crisp line
the snowblower draws
at the driveway’s
edge.
I need not
accept it’s
gospel to
appreciate
the beauty of
the craft.
Prognosticate on
the measured difference
between
this highway
over that.
Salt pure lore
over
the roads
more or less
travelled.
Make them
safe
for others.
I will listen.
Explain to me
in
ballad form
the emotional
vibrancy of sport.
I love when
this gift,
an inheritance without
obligation,
can mention without
management.
Startle
then enfold me
with tearful voltas-
wincing and
wistful noticings
about the
strain of age.
Ironic
that you
only mention
limits while
in motion;
pain holds wisdom,
it reminds
of how
and when
you are
in the world.
Rally and regale
songs of
the protector,
their duty
and the fear.
Surround me
with metaphor
in repeating layers-
your arms thinning,
your love radiating,
your reach grasping.
You do that
and I will curate
a love language
in my chest,
silent sometimes
on fire otherwise.
Be alliterative;
rhyme;
repeat yourself.
You will sink in.
You will
fill this heart
shaped box
made by
bare hands
and quiet
determination.
in our dad shoes
Walking tenderly, your patient unpracticed transport; struggling for smoothed transitions; heel, arch, ball of toe. Floating along this hallway with you sleeping, swaddle wrapped torpedo-like and wedged between the base of my palm and the crook of my right arm. The beep and whoosh at each intersection help me echolocate in space and time. There’s no sense of motion save for the alternating fluorescent flickers above. Is it day? Is it night? Was Monday a minute ago? A slight shuffle reveals the worn groove I follow. People pass, some I notice, some notice that I notice. None spend much time seeing me. They can’t really. My sense of ‘me’ is past tense. I am now never right here. I will now only be a moment ago. Right now, for now, I am all halo and aura and clumsy smiles. An identity wakes and expands and stretches and tries to make space for all the things I don’t know yet. This moment of reverence is heavily referential. My face reveals untethered hope. And fear. A passerby offers brightly ‘Oh what a good Dad.’ My face rounds out in one of those highmounted convex mirrors. Turning the corner, worry draws me back to my tiring arm. I didn’t earn those words yet, but I took them anyway. You were an imagined world upon which I now reside. You are answers I may never understand. I have so many questions, that are impossible to ask.
stars
[for b.h.]
I spend some nights
stargazing. Maybe
star searching is
a better term for
it actually. My eyes
hopscotch and slide
between points of light
and patches of dark.
I imagine the minds
that played with the
constellations, connecting
the sparks, conjuring
bears and lions
and tigers
on the inky
canvas of night.
Effigies to calm
and protect.
Familiars to
guard and worship.
I suspect they needed
reassurance too.
Who doesn’t need light?
This happens
mostly after open
ended moments.
What the hell
just happened
moments.
What was it you
once told me
moments.
Dark moments of
night.
And standing
out under the stars
scrying my future,
finding proof,
and accepting the truth,
that reading messages from
messengers millions
of miles away,
somehow makes
me feel that much
closer to
you.
2015
and the appetizers were ordered
then the phone rang
and she saw me crying
then the empty seats were vacated without warning
and the drive back to the hospital was fragile and silent
then I was both passenger and driver for 13 minutes 7 kilometres
and the parking lot was empty
then memories began flooding back in
and the halls slid past me in cautious waves
then my mom was huddled near the floor
and my sister said he’s gone
then my spouse anchored her hand between my shoulder blades
and
then
and
then
and
. . .
words keep wolves at bay 