Fathers-in-Law
This isn’t what I wanted, your father
Following me as if I know where I am
Going, in these woods I stand to inherit
When he dies. What I want is
Your shoulders, the round luster
Of buttered rolls, but how far away
You are, sitting in the kitchen with our mothers,
Trying to keep them talking.
And then I hear branches breaking like
A man kneeing kindling and his voice
In my ear whispering, “There.”
As I raise this gun, flagless pole of no country
I want to be a citizen of, I know you
Are listening for the shot that will tell you
I have done what I have to do for him to
Give me your hand.