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Fathering
American Poetry Review, The, Nov/Dec 2001 by Cahnmann, Melisa
Sometimes I recline in the
fathers' chair, where arms
rest on wide leather, feet
propped. I order a drink,
hear the father in myself
who knows what he wants
and that someone is willing
to bring it. My fathers like
feeling important. They fiddle
with dials, check sprinklers,
and carry heavy ice chests
upstairs. They do not see their
arms and legs, they use them.
My fathers are not ashamed
of their bodies. They wear them
in t-shirts from the St. Louis
Cardinals and "Don't Mess
with Texas." My fathers
would like to be large as Texas so they eat
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large cuts of meat. I find them
in summer at barbecues
or sauntering slowly around
picnic benches and talking
to the willows. My fathers are not
afraid to be silent. Sometimes
they turn off the sound and still
watch the TV. My fathers live
inside me, ask: how am I?
could I use any help? When I strike
and miss they are there, bringing
me water. My fathers say
there's a next time. And because
they are so often right, I
believe them.
MELISA CAHNMANN'S poems have appeared in Quarterly West, Borrow Street, and Laurel Review, among others. She is a Painted Bride Quarterly poetry editor and teaches creative writing workshops.
Copyright World Poetry, Incorporated Nov/Dec 2001
Provided by ProQuest Information and Learning Company. All rights Reserved
