Here in this narrow seat
with a god’s eye view
from the belly of unfathomable
mechanics, 36 077 feet
from the Earth, I want only to grace
the broad back of a man
each tender moment his arm
appears between his seat
and the wall.
I am no fool.
I can pull this line
of desire until it yanks
free my father, or the idea
of my father who is ash
unsettling along the bed
of the St Lawrence
a short row from shore.
Years back, alive, his arms
were full, holding
what?
A brambled mystery
he found impossible
to set down. The hands
of a drunk hold everything
they shouldn’t.
Today
being today, I listen to music
on an airplane headed
towards home. I resist touching
a stranger. La Havas sings
We all make mistakes, we do.
I learned from you.
