My Father's Wound

Avocado trees on the moon. Aichigum,

mullukumb, Billy Blue Gum. This is not exactly

a confessional. My father’s wound

was also my wound, dirt outside

Vedanta Hall, blood in the dirt

below the gutter pipe, blood like washing

undone in my banian fold. I am not saying

that blood was the thing. My father

was singing. From the tall narrow barred window,

the gravel driveway, in the heat, my father’s wound

is jelly to the touch. I touch it now.

A broken tree on the floor. Tarzan says,

“Tarzan save Vivek father wound.” “The shadow

before State House, he will ride his bike no more.”

Once, I looked up from paper and saw the clouds

move. It was terrible, that clouds

could move. The clouds moving reminded me

of my father’s wound. I don’t care if you like this,

I am going to take my time. My father came back

from a hernia operation, there had been a mistake,

the stitches had to be removed. Every day

I had seen him shaving

in the bathroom, whistling Balamurali’s songs.

“If you’re going

to write a poem about me,” my father says,

“don’t forget to mention my daily yoga.”

There is a large glass door looking onto the pool.

My father cleared that place up. Surrealism only matters

if it’s real. I listen to Michael,

Mr. Mister, Genesis. On Kyrie, I saw

a massive bird block the sky while I blasted

the song from the car stereo to the playground

and the driver sat quietly. Did I mention

we had a driver? He drove me around

when my father had his wound

and could not move.

I betrayed the wound. I see it half-formed, my mother

washing him, his long painful yelps. This was scary,

to hear those animal sounds. My mother went in there

instead of me. Splashing. A red oval among the ripples.

Source: Universal Beach (ingirumimusnocte, 2011)