Bones bang in the house, clutter of vellum lives; knobs of father’s eyes, like tender calf’s, burst once under strain of thick dosage that needled in his thigh, the coolest wedge of calamities, strong sugar epithet, fractional raid on sucrose
God, how the blind supplicate.
Stairs yet wear his trod, deep impress of heft, midnight carry to bed after birthday gift. 4 A.M. soft shoe, creaking banister, as he pried open day before sun’s luster.
His hammer peals in stone, talks in lintel and joist, good carpenter sign where house holds fast and concerts each echo—shaving song loud as bells, a hammock of laughter I hear swinging up the halls, the roars, admonishing, voice range extra broad, soft or harsh as tongs.
We never lied, never stared into eye or dared talk back, sat quiescently before that rock.
I divide time owned – before and after laughter, before he went blind and all after.
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This post is republished on Medium.
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