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Let us pause to applaud the white bell-bottom suit,
the wide flared collar, the black thick coiffed hair,
in this photo my father has sent of himself
at a gathering off of Sonoma Highway in the early 70s.
I can’t stop looking at the photo. This is swagger
that feels almost otherworldly, epic, like Lorca
Expounding in Buenos Aires, Not the form
but the marrow of the form. He is perfect there, my father
in the photo. I feel somehow I am perched on a bay laurel
branch nearby but not born yet. It’s in black and white, the photo.
You can see his grin behind his lush mustache. Is it time
that moves in me now? A sense of ache and unraveling,
my father in his pristine white suit, the eye of the world barely able
to handle his smooth unbroken stride. It’s been a year
since I’ve seen him in person, I miss how he points
to his apple tree and I miss his smooth face
that no longer has the mustache that I always adored.
As a child I once cried when he shaved it. Even then,
I was too attached to this life.
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