02
Nov
12

as a father

She is curled up,

In her mother’s arms,

Squirming and twisting,

In a spastic ballet

Where she is

The only one

Who knows

The choreography.

Her blonde hair,

A deception

Of her

Asian heritage,

Thanks to her father,

Sticks

To her

Sweaty, round face

And boogery nose.

Her grunts

And jerks,

Briefly waken

Her mother,

But only for a moment-

She’s learned to sleep

With one eye open, one arm around her child and the other protecting her face.

The combined jumble

Of arms and legs,

Tangled hair,

Alternating grunts and groans,

And competing breaths,

Has become

The soundtrack and landscape

Of my imperfect

World.

 

Timothy Vance Jackson

November 2, 2012

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