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

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.