Poem for Final Prelimary Round of Slam '05. |
I have faith in you, fraternizing with the neighbors etched in photos of Dad's days-- eating watermelon, killing black snakes, making the square plot of land his domain. When I was eight his friends came to do the Cha-Cha on the Spanish tiling in the basement, galvanizing cheer upon red-padded chairs, old printer's stools, his claim-to-fame. On summer nights like these we chased fireflies to our heart's content, our dreams alive, always on course toward a family circle. We were quarantined when we all had the chicken pox, it was the day-and-age when vaccines were sweeping the country, our glands were like a gold-tooth. When I was fourteen, I staged a sleep-over pow-wow that filled the air with guitar music. More than a dozen children with guitars, it was a summer happening. Old Londoner's later visited us, a part of our old homestead as if it were a ticky-tack souvenir itself. The genuine adventures can never really be handed over, I just get a feel for blindly spilling them. There are all three son missing now, too, and their deaths hampers happy days. The tale is the long end of the kite's. We stand not though in misery, over three generations of graves, we have become numbed with pride and lament. I heard the lovely voice of my sister-in-law gayly saying, "Let's all go over to my Restaurant, "Stell's", just before the youngests' devastating car crash on day in May. Sadly, we will be crying in our beer forever more. Yet. After ate my soft tomatoes and swelled in my Parmesan. I washed his shirts to find quilted triangles in the lining, a sign that he was being taken care of. As I press my fingers to them, I take stock in the possibility of drawing triangles in the sand, thus, another round of traditional paradise will measure the family's love in time. |