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.