The 2River View

Cognitive Development

I was born without language and with a father.

In the house were things that would be heirlooms

later. I would grow up and learn how to speak,

when to be quiet. I would grow up and learn

how to hold my father’s hand in the perfect silence.

I used to think there would always be the right words.

Now I have language and no father. His name rolls

around in my mouth, an opal marble. When I think

of the past, I clench my teeth. When I crack a tooth,

it is my father’s tooth. My mouth is full of heirlooms.

When I learned how to smile, they were already there.

English Lesson

I never asked to be literate, to read

Huffy on the side of the silver bike

I couldn’t ride. To see the blood

on my father’s finger cursing

after yardwork. No one learns how

to forgive on purpose. When I

stepped on the pedal, I didn’t expect

the wind in my hair to feel like the father

I never had. I never asked to plan

my dad’s funeral, but here I am

celebrating his life, flying downhill

aware of metaphor. A metaphor

is what something isn’t. I am not

my father, but I am a simile, just like him.

My father was sorry. I was forgiveness.

At my father’s funeral,

I will shake hands and smile

and realize I am not crying.

He was a good man, people will say.

No one learns to read hoping

for a good obituary.

My father was a good man.

I was a literary device.

I was how he made meaning.