Abecedarian on the Good Father

Keith Leonard

As he holds his wife’s hand, the nurse tells him to breathe. He will be a good father. He  could be. His wife tows a boat on land with her teeth.  Don’t worry. Good father. Breathe. Later, everyone smiles when he jogs with the stroller. He  feigns interest in ponies. He pushes a swing and his daughter giggles. He applies sunblock, and  helps warm the bottle, and he is inducted into the fatherly hall of fame. He  jumps on the trampoline, and the chorus sings Good Father. He wipes ketchup off her cheek at the zoo, and the old women  laud. He is told he is a new breed of man. Evolved. His knuckles just barely or never scraping the ground. He hugs often enough, packs her lunch, and the crowd  pours on the applause. He lays her down for  quiet time. It goes somewhat well.  Rejoice, the people shout, for here is a saint, as he lifts diapers to the conveyor belt. Truthfully, he feels slightly unwell. A bowl of plastic fruit is pretty, but  vaguely toxic. He sleeps fine without a mouth affixed to his chest. His bottle of Xanax is half full. The nurse says, You will be a good father. He jogs with the stroller. He reaches the zenith of a very small hill. 

Lullaby

John James - for Wendell

Algae pushes north and further north. The plankton follows, and with it, a biome

of multifarious sea creatures: microbes, mollusks. Charismatic megafauna. All of them

now breed at higher latitude, which means the things that bred at that higher latitude now breed elsewhere

and elsewhere eat. I linger at the end, the edge of it. I tread the precipice

of the abyss. It is Friday, early, and my son is newly born. In the dark he coos and grunts. The slowing

stream of morning news murmurs in his ear. It cradles him in a sound, like some

object of history. Outside, berry brambles glisten in an almost absent wind, here

and there starting up to toss pollen from a node. The starlings, always starlings, tighten

like fists along a strand of telephone wire. My son, he’s sucking on my finger. He’s looking

up at me with two bulbous slate gray eyes that hardly let me scrawl these words. I think of the beluga

whale stitched on his shirt, the fishy taste of the milk it feeds its own young, born in warmer waters, which push them

toward the pole. Here, sun pummels the windows and the exposed planks of the house, summons tiny seedlings

from the mud. It desiccates the herbs left hanging on the porch. My son writhes in my arm, a single

muscle almost, slacking and contracting as he throws another wail. The end, it’s moving toward us. His future’s set

in an unreadable script. Through glass I watch starlings shuffle and drift, displace

grubworms from the dirt. My neighbor shaves a bristlecone pine toppled in the morning heat. He drops

the limbs in piles and soaks the wood in flame. Somewhere in the distance plankton colonies dissolve.

Whales go with them. The oak trees burn in Spain. My son rolls his eyes over curtains

and patterned sheets, gazes at the azure light of the TV. At his lips, a milky bubble. He moves

his tiny head. He dozes to the changeless whir of the machine, gogging, I presume, at its slow and secret ministry.

Duplex

Jericho Brown

A poem is a gesture toward home. It makes dark demands I call my own.

               Memory makes demands darker than my own:                My last love drove a burgundy car.

My first love drove a burgundy car. He was fast and awful, tall as my father.

               Steadfast and awful, my tall father                Hit hard as a hailstorm. He'd leave marks.

Light rain hits easy but leaves its own mark Like the sound of a mother weeping again.

               Like the sound of my mother weeping again,                No sound beating ends where it began.

None of the beaten end up how we began. A poem is a gesture toward home.

Stromae - sings of fatherhood and absence...

Papaoutai

Dites-moi d'où il vient Enfin je saurais où je vais Maman dit que lorsqu'on cherche bien On finit toujours par trouver Elle dit qu'il n'est jamais très loin Qu'il part très souvent travailler Maman dit "travailler c'est bien" Bien mieux qu'être mal accompagné Pas vrai ? [Pre-Chorus] Où est ton papa ? Dis-moi où est ton papa ? Sans même devoir lui parler Il sait ce qui ne va pas Ah sacré papa Dis-moi où es-tu caché ? Ça doit, faire au moins mille fois que j'ai Compté mes doigts [Chorus](x2) Où t'es, papa où t'es ? Où t'es, papa où t'es ? Où t'es, papa où t'es ? Où, t'es où, t'es où, papa où t'es ? [Verse 2] Quoi, qu'on y croit ou pas Y aura bien un jour où on y croira plus Un jour ou l'autre on sera tous papa Et d'un jour à l'autre on aura disparu Serons-nous détestables ? Serons-nous admirables ? Des géniteurs ou des génies ? Dites-nous qui donne naissance aux irresponsables ? Ah dites-nous qui, tient Tout le monde sait comment on fait les bébés Mais personne sait comment on fait des papas Monsieur Je-sais-tout en aurait hérité, c'est ça Faut l'sucer d'son pouce ou quoi ? Dites-nous où c'est caché, ça doit Faire au moins mille fois qu'on a, bouffé nos doigts [Chorus] Où t'es, papa où t'es ? Où t'es, papa où t'es ? Où t'es, papa où t'es ? Où, t'es où, t'es où, papa où t'es ? [Pre-Chorus](x2) Où est ton papa ? Dis-moi où est ton papa ? Sans même devoir lui parler Il sait ce qui ne va pas Ah sacré papa Dis-moi où es-tu caché ? Ça doit, faire au moins mille fois que j'ai Compté mes doigts

Tell me where he's from At last I'll know where I'm going Mom says when we look hard We always find what we seek

She says he's never very far That he often goes to work Mom says working is good Much better than keeping bad company Right?

Where is your dad? Tell me where your dad is! Even without having to talk to him He knows what's wrong. Damn it, Dad! Tell me where you're hiding! I must Have counted my fingers At least a thousand times. Hey!

Where are you? Dad, where are you? Where are you? Dad, where are you? Where are you? Dad, where are you? Where are you, where are you Dad, where are you?

Where are you? Dad, where are you? Where are you? Dad, where are you? Where are you? Dad, where are you? Where are you, where are you Dad, where are you?

Whether we believe it or not There'll be a day we won't believe it anymore One day or another we will all be dads And from one day to the next we'll have walked out the door

Will we be detestable? Will we be admirable? Begetters or go-getters? Tell us who brings Into this world the irresponsible

So tell us who, then Everybody knows How babies are made But nobody knows How dads are made Mr. Know-It-All Gets it from his dad, eh

Do you have to suck it from your thumb or what? Tell us where it's hiding We must Have gnawed on our fingers At least a thousand times

Where are you? Dad, where are you? Where are you? Dad, where are you? Where are you? Dad, where are you? Where are you, where are you Dad, where are you?

Where are you? Dad, where are you? Where are you? Dad, where are you? Where are you? Dad, where are you? Where are you, where are you Dad, where are you?

Where is your dad? Tell me where your dad is! Even without having to talk to him He knows what's wrong. Damn it, Dad! Tell me where you're hiding! I must Have counted my fingers At least a thousand times. Hey!

Where is your dad? Tell me where your dad is! Even without having to talk to him He knows what's wrong. Damn it, Dad! Tell me where you're hiding! I must Have counted my fingers At least a thousand times. Hey!

here are you? Dad, where are you? Where are you? Dad, where are you? Where are you? Dad, where are you? Where are you, where are you Dad, where are you?

Where are you? Dad, where are you? Where are you? Dad, where are you? Where are you? Dad, where are you? Where are you, where are you Dad, where are you?