Father's memory

 
On Sundays the father climbs
one side of the roof
trying to find somewhere
where there are no eyes.
 
Nothing else to do but
undress, lie back
and open his arms wide.
His feet are crossed and made into an X.
A target for the sun to focus
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 bring to himself,
in his heroic exhaustion,
a warrior.
 
If we follow him, still as the light,
genuflecting to his side.
Intimate as the sun
hunting spiders on his ankle.
 
Like a veiled mystery,
I want to read dad's jaw line,
the story from his mouth,
the mouth on his shoulders,
his belly.
slightly,
like kissing a flower.
 
Rubbing eyes
along the father's muscles,
his taste is so dry
like the petals
or the damp grass,
silk candy,
old dolls.
 
The open arms
and feet crossed.
At the foot of the cross I collect
the father in my arms,
stroking him 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...
whence everything, like air,
was extracted at first.