—for dad
Let me start with the match. I am as quick
as fire. But, the duration of my light is not
the length of a matchstick. I’m the brown
crown of the match & my eagerness is the
matchbox. When we kiss, I ignite. & every
–thing I touch beams. I do not touch things
that are capable of turning into ashes. I
touch anything that can absorb light, hold
fire & still not burn. Like hope. Like faith.
Like love. Like a miracle. Like my father
turning his back on religion. Once, he was
a lost sheep & could not recognize the voice
of his shepherd, he wandered a wanting.
My father’s hope is green. He believes in seeds
& seasons. So, he tills the cornfield with
his teeth in a bid to fashion a wilderness into
an orchard. My hope on the other hand
is inflammable like gasoline. My ambitions
are like glass, you can see the fire through
my pupils. As the darkness crept into his night,
father would often say, sun son, you’re my
only eye. Literally, I was not. I wish I were—
like a star, like a fire shoved into the
lantern’s white eye.