(1)
When I was five and you two years younger
our father walked us out in Great Salt Lake.
Headed for a rope way out in the water
with Daddy in the middle, holding each
of our hands we went out farther
than we’d ever gone. Like the ocean – all you saw water, sky
not the other side. Someone had told us
if you can’t see the other side, it’s the
ocean. But this was just a lake, the Great
Salt Lake. The water had that sea smell, warm.
color blue and gray, lake and sky a change
of shade. The water deepened
but we didn’t sink. Farther and farther, we went out
held up by water and Daddy’s strong arms.
I wanted him always to be like that.
(2)
All but raped, you said,
he all but raped you.
Pretending comfort
he kissed me all over my body
every part he kissed no longer part of me.
(3)
He told me I was
cold like my mother, said I
was no smarter than anyone else.
Then one night half drunk, drunken tender
he said he’d help me with college
but I couldn’t tell his wife.
He said it like it was some
love affair he had to hide.
(4)
Years after you take the pills, downers and uppers, all you could find,
years after the priest advises you to turn him in,
years after he leaves town and doesn’t return
until Billy drives you back to Mom in California,
you visit him.
I wanted a family again, you say. I wanted a father.
But
a father sees you, doesn’t
blind himself so he can use you.
A father touches you and you are more yourself.
(5)
We walk the Oregon coast.
The fog’s come in.
At the edge of the beach I can’t see
the ocean.
At water’s edge I can’t see parking lot or buildings
no landmarks
just sea and sand and sky and all the boundaries of it gone.
We take off shoes and socks to wade the surf
and I could warn you of the cold, the dangerous waves, the undertow
that can sweep you out to sea
but you already know.
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