The day my father wore only white
and we waded into the water
His hands – I know one is not supposed to talk
of such things – but my father’s hands
looked neat and strong
and a sliver of pale watch-skin that hid behind
my knuckles We clasped each other’s wrists, a
complicated arrangement of shapes learnt in school
angular sounds wrapped around our tongues
r-h-o-m-b-u-s
par-a-llel-o-gram
that I have never uttered since and
with these he built a firm foundation
My mother said he’d received a calling
from God and to his family, and yes that includes me too
and it was about time he acted like the
patriarch he was supposed to be, put some
edges in his backbone
I didn’t know it then but this was
the only time it would flower in his
wide legged stance and determination not to
slip and to hold me tight to squeeze the nerves
And then he pulled me under and light refracted
and I came back up and we let go of each other
the shape was broken, the calling answered
Jodie Hannis