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Kin
Underneath my lip lives
a pierced scar with a father
moving around its pale stitch.
This is called six years old; no,
it's called catching father,
like a roman arch straddled
over a woman, their love making
a window to an unsuspecting storm.
In that moment-the basement bed half-
alive-I smelled every fish he'd caught
and felt the crime of the bait.
Standing hidden by shadow and door,
I watched them like a moth,
dumb by light. Did he notice?
Or was it my nightgown rustling
that caused them to look at me
with hooks in their mouths?
I knew then, there are parts of you
you cannot hide. Like breathing.
Or his face. Most of his wrinkles
now match the stories he's told,
but there are one or two hidden
in the corners that refuse to find
a place to settle. They wander
his skin, unsure as that stunned
child who wants to believe
the fish thrown back will live.
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