My Father Is a Mansion
       

made entirely of myths,
each vaulted ceiling more
intricate than the last.
My father is a trophy
in a clan of empty frames,
fork in the most violent
of rivers. He is a detective.
Therapist. Sax player. A nobody.
Water walker. Griot
whose mouth spills stories
like moths. Legend.
He is both arms
around me like a bomb
blast, one eye cast over
his shoulder for shrapnel.
Storm of a thousand
swallowed keys,
each one more elaborate
than the last. Candle in a cave
without an entrance, his wine
glass sloshes into his lap
at red lights. Empty groove
in a mattress. Lone sail
in a choppy sea. Racket of a
hardback Dickens through
drywall. Scholar of silence
and swallowed keys. He helps
people fish inside themselves
for the right lie. He
is other women's names
and locked cabinets,
one eye cast over
his shoulder for the
shrapnel. He is
vomit on the bedroom
carpet. Scholar of
the bomb blast and both
arms around me. He is
made of myths and
keys and red lights and other
women. Pile of snipped
strings and snot in a waiting
room. Hardback water
walker. Fishing tale. An
elaborate entrance.

Tweet

Copyright © 2018 Adam Falkner All rights reserved
from Adoption
Diode Editions
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission