God, Love His Bones
"God, love his bones," he would say.
When I was a child, I would
bump my knee on a coffee table or
scrape my arm on a tree branch, and
my father would console me.
"God, love his bones," he would say,
holding me in his lap
against his chest.
(I remember crying, tears freely flowing
from prepubescent eyelids, unblocked
by the dam of pride.)
"God, love his bones," he would say,
kissing my forehead with paternal authority.
And we would sit in his smelly
recliner for awhile, watching football
and televangelists.
(When I was ready to leave him
to play again, I would squirm; he would
lift his legs and let me go.)
I would go back into the world
a slightly smarter little boy, ready
to endure more bruises and scars.
He would light his cigar, flick at his
translucent ashtray, and watch me.
(I have never gone back.
I will never look back.)
No comments:
Post a Comment