Tyler Dunston
Deep Sea Fishing
When the land became too much, we fell
into waves with arms of coiled foam.
A whisper issued from my coral lips
or was it smoke? I looked at him and wondered
if it would all be alright. Exhaling
fog of fire, our boat came barking up
from pools of sonic blue. We climbed aboard.
The waves—I never knew the world could heave
like this. Not like the salamander lake,
a mirror you could walk across, then plunge
your searching fingers in, then form a fist
around the squirming thing, and fall back trembling
into the gold, scorched sand. These coiling waves
were nothing like that world. And when my father
passed me Aaron’s rod, I watched them whirl
into blackness, rain and ash becoming
pearls, then squirming creatures in my hand.
Abraham Caressing Isaac
after Rembrandt
I run my fingers along the carpet
absently. Looking at the moon
through the window: a quarter
glinting in the street. A cloud
runs over it. I blink
I turn
toward my father’s face, lit
by its own soft glow. ESPN plays
the same six stories
all night and into morning. I like to sit there
after he’s asleep and watch
the stories on repeat.
My father’s arm dangles over the edge
of the couch. Not quite on my shoulder
but close. His hand bisected by the TV glow
and the shadow. Limp fingers, hand half-closed,
poised for a painting.
Pines shudder.
A breeze runs through our house
like a swarm of locusts
and moves on. The moon
reappears.
Both of us bathed
in it. Father
and son. No sacrifice
tonight. The same
moon penetrates
us both.
My father yawns in his sleep
and touches my shoulder.
