My father brought me books Monet in the 90s, Mastering the Art of Drawing, The Garden of Eden And Bollywood magazines She, Femina, Stardust Heart-shaped earrings, a necklace of beads made of lacquered paper and seashells and bags with elephants embroidered on them Brightly colored scarves ridiculous t shirts grocery store flowers, arabic store bread…
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My mother tells me, as we’re laying in bed, arms folded over our eyes to block the light In her dim apartment because she never opens the blinds because natural light irritates her–she turns on lamps to read and then shields her eyes to nap. I don’t say this as an assault against my mother–it…
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You taught me to ride a bike. The metaphors here arrive fully assembled, no poet required: A father letting go, a daughter learning balance. So predictable, I wonder if the memory: sunlight, sidewalk, scabbed knees is even my own. Except that I remember the line of fear running from throat to stomach the urgency to…
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My father’s face was usually obscured by a camera clutched in his palm pressed to the hollow around his eye He saw the world as a photograph waiting to be taken A film to capture and replay at will. He recorded us eating and sleeping, Mouths open. Slowly waking. He recorded us getting into the…
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Does everyone remember their father’s hands Tapping the kitchen table with his middle three fingers Turning the pages of the newspaper Pointing to a map then touching his lip Pushing the cassette in to fast forward eject select another cassette, ribbons rustling rewind searching Looking for that old song,that one ghazal that will take him…
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The first time I disappointed anyone was the day I was born a girl. But my father forgave me. Or so the story goes.
Do you remember me walking on your back, while you counted, groaning after a long day of whatever it was that fathers did when they went to work with latched briefcases? Remember how I tried to keep my balance until you got to one hundred, but you always rocked on your belly around eighty so…
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My father left behind movie theaters of decaying grandeur; red carpets gone black, grimy chandeliers half-lit at intermission double matinees, afternoons spent with strangers He left rickshaws pulled by sinewy men, who carried him through crooked streets to stand in front of faded facades and speak the names of people long gone He has left…
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The day is winding down, so I’m trying to write this poem before I miss today. My father and I went to fly a kite on the roof. When other kites appeared from the field across the road, he took the spool into his own hands told me that some people covered the string with…
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In the navy Oldsmobile wagon With auto windows and wood panels My father drove me to school and I sat in the rear-facing seat He drummed his fingers on the skinny vinyl wheel, sometimes pretending not to hear when I shouted music requests Over the velour upholstery of the empty seats between us I looked…
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