my father once taught me how to breathe;
my father once taught me how to breathe; he took me in his arms
and whispered the truths of the Earth between us so that the light of the
Sun
would dance and dance for days on end
and I
would understand
the secrets of footprints left behind;
all morning, he lifted my chest
Joyous and proud and full, never empty
but rounded
in wholeness;
my father once taught me how easily forgotten the universe is; to grasp the seeds
and plant them, inside you, consuming a bouquet
of even the smallest of leaves or flowers,
to caress your skin,
and sigh, along with every intake and outburst of wind,
the minuscule, the most important, patching the holes between the missing ligaments
of being;
my father once taught me how we choose to live our lives for things, and people, that are
defined within the importance of us; that give meaning to us,
the bag,
the bag
for example, carrying him inside, his tears, his wishes, his blood,
he’s there
holding onto himself by thread
dragging
and dragging behind a cape
for an ancient, forgotten king
that is now bones beneath our feet;
weary bones that gave and gave
and gave
the marrow inside, until its hollow-shelled existence, begged for rest,
yet, he still tried his best to smile.
