Tuesday, February 5, 2008

in search of

I close my eyes.

I want to understand this the way my father understands his hands
pushing and prodding the dark matter into the shapes he knows better than words
(his eyes glittering)
like orange juice spilled on lined paper,
staining a truth where there once was only possibility.

I want to find the universe
in a drawer labeled
as if it was made of atoms who were begging to be
connect and somehow be more than they were
connect and somehow be more than the empty space between his crumpled fingers, more than bits of your eyelashes and the distant star that exploded one Tuesday six billion years ago, before Wednesday knew it was coming with the rising sun.

It is this way each Sunday.
I watch him, raising fists with jilted manners,
sweeping impassioned words in foreign tongues into the cracks within my skin,

yet all I can think of is how I wish to know how a question becomes a question and not an answer, and how with a simple flick of his wrist he tells secrets he doesn’t know he’s keeping.


Jodie said...

What an awesome and beautiful poem!

Mez said...

Wow, this is very mature poetry! When Daddy read it to me I thought a middle aged person was writing about his aging father...I hope that you try to publish it somewhere. Love you, Mom

RuthG said...

Rachel, I like the way you use days of the week in the poem, & also how the father's gestures are recurrent & have so much weight/meaning. It's beautifully done. I hope you keep writing poems--would love to have you in one of the poetry workshops I attend!

Devon said...

Rachel! Hi!