Missed Calls

When I miss a call from my father

I imagine him standing

in the palm of a river. An arcane sadness

sandbagged behind the years

that followed him there.

And there—white sky—he sees a window

grow wild on the horizon.

Then another and another and again.

Glass hanging in wooden frames held up

by nothing. Any ghost invited

to enter or exit the absence of walls.

This happens every time. And every time

it’s my fault—everything

that drags the riverbed snared in one net.

The poverty of an old cul-de-sac snagged

on drunken fists. Six siblings.

His mother’s murder. His decision

to leave when I was born—six years gone,

winter was for forgetting.

I listen to the usual voicemail. I remember

to rise above this—to try to—

like a dream that teaches you how to fly.

I had that dream often after my father

came back. Forget the rules

for a second, you’re sure to fall. Don’t fly

any higher than the telephone poles. Now

try the trees. The branches

stretched over enough river to save you.

Stay safe, the voicemail repeats. Stay safe.

The same simple imperative

my brother gets with every missed call.

My brother—who climbs

cell towers for a living—who all day sighs

like death. Looking down from 200 ft.

I wonder what he imagines. If he swears

he’s seen a mystic sadness—

its massive wings shadow over the shapes

of the city below, as if twin rivers

flowed above it. If in dreams

he follows our father with feathery arms.

Listening for his name.

Waiting to be called into the sky.