dada

there’s me

I’m here

I can see his smile, rocking in his

convoluted Bahamian chair

the beige hexagons, lacquered, against his

soft skin      pink back pocked

through a thin summer shirt

he’s there

happy and calm     and peaceful, with her

— I love them like that:    together

in love

its beautiful, they’re beautiful and I

can see them,

can see his soft writer’s hands

— way they always were;

i remember how they felt

to hold; when they held mine

and smiled, the years of

pressed,

pen-flattened

fingers of an indoors man

i can see him cross off lines

with other long lines,

lips: incantation

rhythmic recitation of

arabic and

bubbled & flourished

english alphabets in religious

errors and misnomers

— I’m here

a whirl of wintry wind

in early spring: and

i can see the unkempt

earthen mound,

behind, the mossy lime wall

i know its soft and cold

but nothing so soft of his pale

age-soaked arms,

brown sunspots & beloved little dots

I am here and i can feel

hugging his tropical warm chest

i’m here and it smells of home

his indoor sweat and

soft gray hair

I’m here

and I feel

his smile beneath his beard

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