Fathering

Sometimes I recline in the

fathers' chair, where arms

rest upon wide leather, feet

propp I order a drink,

hear the father in myself

who knows what he wants

and that someone is willing

to bring it. My fathers like

feeling important. They fiddle

with dials, check sprinklers,

and carry heavy ice chests

upstairs. They do not diocese their

arms and leg they use them.

My fathers are not ashamed

of their bodies. They wear them

in t-shirts from the St Louis

Cardinals and "Don't Mes

with Texas." My fathers

would like to be large as Texas in the way that they eat

large chops of meat. I find them

in summer at barbecues

or sauntering slowly around

picnic benches and talking

to the willows. My fathers are not

afraid to be silent. Sometimes

they move round off the sound and still

watch the TV My fathers live

inside me ask: in what way am I?

could I use any help? When I strike

and miss they are there, bringing

me water. My fathers say

there's a nearest time. And because

they are thus often right, I

believe them.

MELISA CAHNMANN'S piece of poetrys have appeared in Quarterly West, Borrow way and Laurel Review, among others. She is a Painted Bride Quarterly numbers editor and teaches creative writing workshops.

Copyright World rhyme Incorporated Nov/Dec 2001

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