In the house of people, I can’t forget my father;
I am like him in the color of my loam,
my long fingers,
and the way that music is solid in my bones,
my ballast.
Both of us could drink.
In the house of people, he was taller than me,
but both of us could sing.
He promised me the world
every time we took a walk.
After he died, I crawled through sorrow,
until I could learn to walk again.
The two times I was drunk in my life,
it was like a 24-hour flu: I got over it
but never forgot.
In the house of people, I have my father’s teeth,
his Irish face, his desire to please.
When I think I am over him,
his memory distracts me
like a rain waiting.
