for my father
My father’s hands flapped in a spiral of smoke—a weak light. What did I dream then, a child drenched in image? Sleek light,
falling honeyed rivers, purpled fruit. What did I need to imagine my body, calm in migration? I wanted to seek light.
Dawn sank into my hands like rain. I wanted to evaporate & ask God to reveal my face. I wanted to speak light
& watch the earth settle into being. Each splash of wilderness unraveled into clean, solid lines. From there I would leak light.
From there I would take flight, my body sloped & pliant in this arena of disorder. But in the dark beak of night
that light still shivered. The world with its oblique tilt. Every day I arrived & arrive. My physique light,
my mouth blazing verse. With prayer I swill inward those weeks I lie rooted. Flood my cheek, light
traveling into all skin: I am learning to find pleasure in uncertainty. Teach me your technique, light.
Wait for it to come to you, I heard once in a car. O radiant risk, I am ready. Give me your mystique, light.
Untouched by flame, my father now shakes his hair that suddenly grows to its full, shiny length—an antique light.
The post Imperfect Ghazal on Weightless Living appeared first on The Atlantic.
