A Plea for My Father’s Vision
by Brenda Zhang
You found His son stranded at the border of the Pacific,
an unwritten traveller like yourself, wire-bound
to the ink that branded His skin. Under His father’s warm glare
He was searching for the home His body could return to,
waiting for new eyes to revive His capsized verse.
You took pity on His cracked lips, unable to swallow the fruits
of His labor that hardened as they ripened like baby teeth.
His muted still life-ness beckoned you closer, tempted the color
out of your irises. When you bent over to lick the wear off His feet
He returned the favor and let you try walking on water.
You were already sinking when His finger traces
lit up the sawdust in your eyes, when they found the spot
that made you cry and cleansed you of your toxins. When you
fingered the shell of His palms you weren’t looking for proof, only
permission to let you abandon the demands of a father.
Was it His blood you tasted when you bit your tongue
and let Him steal your sight away?
I only met Him after your feet found land
again, but they stored memories of the minnows
probing your soles, sucking up the spoonfuls of dead skin
they surrendered. You remembered the mouths
you will soon have to feed and fished them out of the water.
You birthed me in the barren sand before His father
could avert His eyes. So that my skin was already
burnt as it ached angrily for the receding sea. The bent belly
of the gulf guided my first searing steps, but you made me
hold His hand in your place, let Him see for me instead.
You think if I float above ground like the palms you
prayed to, rob a sparrow’s eye that spies the seeds
His spit left behind, you might see Him again. You don’t know
that I’ve already replaced you, that my love soars above
yours in manhood and rugged pride.
Can’t you hear the pleading of your blood, at least?
Let me be your son instead.