Día de los Muertos #1

father’s day poem


you bought me a new kite

every spring and we would

go find a vacant lot or empty

field where you taught me

the intricacies of flying


how to subdue the weaving

from side to side and not

let out the string too fast

or how one hard tug makes

it jump up where it will

catch a current of wind

lifting it high and far


we stood there side

by side not saying much

but sharing a sacred moment

when knowledge is passed

on between father and son


as our kite pulled on

its string trying to

join the white billows

above


published in Guernica, revisited. Press 53, 2014




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