Lov*
Here, in this now-after, I think of my family dogs with their Turkish names,
the guns that hung in my father’s glass case,
and how we honored the Samurai mounted on stones
above my head. Knives, in my family, were like vodka:
expensive and chilled. I’d like to think I’m not that cold
and simple, yet, as I stare at this plot of ground to which I’ve been summoned
I admit I’ve always been wary of my superiors,
in particular, my parents.
in particular, my parents.
It began when I was small, this uncertainty, with my father’s large hands
instructing me to find the hidden truths among the leaves
of the Grimm Brothers and Homer with the moderation
of a skinner lurching over a fresh kill.
Always hunt for the purpose, my son, no matter what task you perform.
As I grew, he delivered Nietzsche, Sun Tzu, Adolf,
and Nabokov. I was commanded to learn
from the white spaces of the text: That is where the true life
of a man is lived, my son. You must never forget.
My father’s voice continues to track my path of flight,
his shadow rising from Tartaros melding
with the slung rocks of my youth.
Occasionally, he would ignore my education
to sit with my mother and toast the clear distillation
of their shared life. He would call her Catherine, and she would laugh
each time the freshly bound tobacco tinged her favored
leather chair. Her hair and skin glowed around him, the pale fire
of an ancient Nordic goddess.
On those nights she hummed, a song unlike herself,
but on nights without his presence, she could dismantle a palace
with her Thomas Mann handshake.
She reveled in her fights with the Northern Wind,
proclaiming him to be the true warrior of her soul.
It was a passion I never understood.
Even now, as I stand before their two statues,
remnants of ash frozen in time, plaster castings of a Herculaneum disaster
I can still hear her scraping cough. Love, she used to say, my son
love is like a steel wire.
It will hold a beautiful painting just as easily as it will slice through a man’s neck.
* In Croatian, Czech, and Slovakian the word lov means “hunt.”
No comments:
Post a Comment