Reparation

They tell you the tumor, at present,

is roughly four inches wide.

A manageable distance. One that you scale

with your hands, for some reason,

on the long ride back to Boston,

rather counterintuitively, as you were

trying to use them

to write something meaningful

about all this pain

the miniature killer inside

your father carved into you.

The gesture teaches you

absolutely nothing

about the space

between his inconstant body

& the dark man you chase

in all of your thinking.

He is hundreds of miles

away right now, probably,

sitting in a chair, staring

at the wall like a former assailant.

He is sending you text messages

with critical pieces of language

missing.

You grasp at the shards,

stupidly.

Little builder. Little mirror. Little body

-guard, throwing punches

at the flood.