Mercy Has Been Called A Gentle Rain
After the funeral I didn’t know how best to comfort you,
and so you turned to the river.
I remember that spring day was cold
enough to see breath. When you walked out
to the car, a thick haze clouded your face
like a heavy secret.
Everyone thought it would rain that weekend,
that we would be taking turns shivering between goodbyes
so as not to infect one another. It seemed death
was all around, already. In the moment, I worried
more about my black funeral dress than the virus.
When you came home, your ears were red and icy
to the touch. You were holding a fish
wrapped in plastic, still uncleaned. It was large,
imposing in the water, I’m sure, but under
our kitchen lights his regal glow flattened,
his sharp fins dulled. Your hands were bleeding.
I wanted to bandage them, but you stopped me.
You pull a fish like this out the water
and it deserves to fight back, you said.
It deserves to draw blood.
Father Tongue
after “Recognized Language” by Threa Almontaser
۱
I am told my first language was Farsi. I come back to it when I come back to my father,
on a plane from a place I speak only English. Our phone calls are half
English. My half. What does it mean to understand while being incapable
of response? I never dream in Farsi but I dream of Baba. Nightmares,
dying. What does it mean that my greatest fear is inevitable? Unspoken
into existence, and still looming, looming, the last stitch of life, the string getting shorter.
۲
I call to install my Internet for streaming,
one more distraction I need far from home.
The voice on the other end of the line has a thick accent.
My heart sinks before I mean it to.
The disappointment I know is wrong.
I wonder whose father I am assuming
won’t know the word router, the name Netflix.
I hope my father never knows my betrayal.
۳
lost a like margin right the to move I
.land native my by endangered, deer fallow
.vulnerable me leaves progress Its
.me showed father my foliage the forgotten I’ve
۴
My father is careful with his words,
rarely says something is good,
instead uses not bad to describe enjoyment.
My therapist asks me, can you imagine
how devastating it would be—
to say something was good,
and then it turned out not to be?
Our conversation echoes.
***
Author photograph by Marisa Kimmel
