Uncrossed

on Sundays,
the father climbs
one side of the roof,
looking to find some place
where there are no eyes,
nothing else to do but
undress, lie back and open
arms wide, uncross
his feet and form an X,
a target for the sun to focus on
all the energies on him.

the seat of the soul, the damp hair,
breathing, it's the father who calls
all the light he can for himself,
in his heroic exhaustion,
a warrior.

if you follow him, quiet as the light,
genuflecting to his side,
intimate as the sun, chasing spiders
on his ankle
like a veiled mystery,
wanting to read the jaw line
of the father, the story of his mouth.

the mouth of the sun
on his shoulders,
his belly.
slightly gently,
as one would kiss a flower,
rubbing lips along
father's forehead,
his taste is dry
like the petals,
wet grass,
silk candy,
old dolls.

open arms
and uncrossed feet
at the X of the cross
the sun collects
the father in the arms,
to caress it like a miracle,
not to remove wounds
but to know
what it really is to suffer.
it all seems so natural,
even the mouth
pressed against
the father's body...
where everything was taken from.