Vital

my father

As I stare at my father's face,
I confront the years that have passed
His blue eyes have stayed the same
His ponytail still remains

I'd like to think there's maybe a snow globe -
somewhere on a shelf
of figures of him and my mother dancing
but when you shake it, ash falls

When you stand for a moment in the hallway,
close your eyes and let silence really suffocate you,
you can hear them yelling at one another -
You can hear their war resume

You can't shake that sort of energy
You can't cleanse it with white sage or cedar -
but I find the best way to calm the past is with noise
so I'll stomp on the hardwood floor and sing till the anger simmers

Like most older mountain men,
he talks only of weather, death, and his youth
I admit sometimes it is hard to digest but I listen -
which is a luxury he can't provide me

He knows that I write
He never asks to see any of it
I try to tell my own stories but he interrupts me,
asking for money or to remind him of things

It is a complicated relationship
- to say the least
but when I read through my poetry -
I see some of him in me

Mostly because I apparently -
mostly think of weather, death, and my youth, too