Father (2024)

I met you on HAM radio in the 90s—

you snatched a butterfly

off a birch tree and showed

me the powder from its

wings on your amputated

pointer finger, on the stub.

We’d quarrel angrily

over walkie talkie—

you’d shout the plans for

our campsite on the Rez,

and I’d shout over you

that we never talk like a

normal parent and child do.

I’d help you perform

surgery, via cup and string,

and I’d hand you a

fly fishing rig when you’d

asked for the vacuum tube.

After you die, we’ll divine

one another’s response in

the stars, and argue into

eternity, and my tears might

run a river, they might

run a river straight to you.