Aphorisms for My Father


A waiting woman starves

until she avenges her patience.


Scars race wrack to nourish ruin.

The sure star secures its own erasures.


Paralysis is an epistle, morphine is a maze.

Cheerful only filches when it cheats suffering.


Promise me this: there’s more to a kiss

than a solvent for insults.


Promise me that: there’s less to a fact

than a scrim for rebuttal.


Promise me, then, father to son,

we’ll be neither fulcrum nor careful.