& close his eyes. His hair the shade

of its cracked flesh.

His right arm, inked with three falling

phoenixes--torches

marking the lives he had

or had not taken -- cradles

the pinkish snout. Its teeth

gleaming like bullets.

Huey. Tomahawk. Semi

-automatic. I was static

as we sat in the Nissan, watching waves

brush over our breaths

when he broke for shore, hobbled
on his gimp leg. Mustard

-yellow North Fave jacket

diminishing toward the grey life

smeared into ours. Shrapnel

-strapped. Bushwhacker. The last time

I saw him run like that, he had

a hammer in his fist, mother

a nail-length out of reach.

America. America a row of streetlights

flickering on his whiskey

-lips as we ran. A family

screaming down Franklin Ave.

ADD. PTST. POW. Pow. Pow. Pow
says the sniper. Fuck you

says the father, tracers splashing

through the palm leaves. Confetti

green, how I want you green.

Green despite the red despite

the rest. His knees sunk

in ink-black mud, he guides

a ribbon of water to the pulsing

blowhole. Ok. Okay. AK

-47. I am eleven only once

as he kneels to gather the wet refugee

into his arms. Waves

swallowing
his legs. The dolphin's eye

gasping like a newborn's

mouth. & once more

I am swinging open

the passenger door. I am running

toward a rusted horizon, running

out of a country

to run out of. I am chasing my father

the way the dead chase after

days -- & although I am still

too far to hear it, I can tell,

by the way his neck tilts

to one side, as if broken,

that he is singing

my favorite song

to his empty hands.