Punch

It was a game we’d play
with our father. His abs
like louvered shutters
beneath his black shirt.
We’d line up and take
turns punching him
in the stomach.
He would grunt, once,
as if lifting something
heavy off a floor,
then smile. Amazed
at how little he felt,
we’d laugh when
each of us failed
to break him.
When I hold my son
it is like holding
my father as a boy.
No, not as a boy,
but my father
the size of a boy.
When my father lays
his head on my chest
it is like opening
a window at night.
You can’t see out
but you can feel
the cold air coming in.