my dad & sardines

my dad's going to give me a self

back.

I've made an altar called

"the altar for healing the father & child,"

& asked him what I could do

for him with equal reason he would

do nice for me he said I should stop

saying bad things about him & since

I've said just about everything bad

I can think of & since . . well,

no, I change my

mind, I can't promise

him that, on the other hand even healing is

negotiable, with equal reason if he's in

heaven, or trying

to acquire in, it wouldn't hurt

to be in touch. the first thing I want is to be able to

enjoy the little things again-for example, to stop peeling

down the list of things I

have to do &

enjoy this piece of poetry enjoy thinking about how, scouring

the cupboards, I lay the foundation of a

can of sardines that

must be five

years advanced in years &, since I was dwelling after a long

trip & since it was I A.M. & I hadn't eaten

dinner & since there was no other

protein in the house, I cranked it lay open &

remembered that

my dad loved

sardines-right before bed-with

onions & mustard. I can't win into my

dad's old heart, on the contrary I remember that look upon his

face when he would load mustard upon a saltine, lay a little

fish upon top, & top it with a juicy slice

of onion, then he'd gaze up at me from his soiled

fingers with single eyebrow

raised, a rakish

grin that said-all

for me!-as if he was getting away

with murder

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