I remember the weight of my father's
pants when I lifted them high, stretching
my arms as the heavy legs fell long down
my hips and feet, trying to keep the pants from
touching the floor. He had left them like a Christmas
wreath around his ankles falling asleep. The cloth
heaving down from my fists felt as rough as his
knuckled chin when he kissed me back in a scrap
of time that has no context now. All his
pants seemed to have crusts of paint or dirt
fingering down into the fibers to root there.
I didn't ask why his pants were always dirty
or why he slept so still and wouldn't wake
when I pulled the blanket over us, trying to tuck
myself into the curve of his waist and his sleeping
arm around my shoulders and the hair from
his chest tickling my nose. Wanting him
to wake, I pretended I was uncomfortable,
rustling my legs swimming under the covers
until the sheets warmed.
I finally lifted his eyelid and a blue sun
dawned under my thumb. His soul wasn't
sleeping yet, and I dropped my head on his
face listening to his breath like underground
rapids far away from me. He still breathes
that way. His soul is much bluer now and
not so inseparable from his skin and laugh.
He shakes my hand when I visit him, filling
my fists with his weight, which I can't lift high enough.