Father’s Montage
Nico Pablo
i.
The room, hushed
soft in its whiteness,
divided by these blinds.
Fruit at table’s edge.
Rhythmic beep, metronome of
mechanical pump.
Focus on your father.
Smothered colorless
in the sheets.
The flowers,
dried, can leave
the room.
ii.
Your father is leaving
on the back of a stallion,
both manes rake the air.
The highland breeze
stings the wound you nurse
from falling,
you will not ride again for some time.
You wonder what it’s like to
soar for a moment, lift up,
ride on the back of his saddle.
iii.
You wrinkle your nose
at this room, what else
can you expect of alcohol
except to keep clean,
yet there is no mud
here to rise from,
no horse to fall from.
You look to memory
for color, for a lack of
dependence on machines.
iv.
A sprawling beach.
An hour after lunch, when it is
safe to swim.
Your father wraps his shirt
around his bare head, then
charges into the waiting
sea. How far can he
go? The clue is rippling muscle
parting the waves.
His wingspan will rise from
the shore. It could sweep you
and you could fly.
