Imperfect Ghazal on Weightless Living
· The Atlantic
for my father
My father’s hands flapped in a spiral of smoke—a weak light.
What did I dream then, a child drenched in image? Sleek light,
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falling honeyed rivers, purpled fruit. What did I need
to imagine my body, calm in migration? I wanted to seek light.
Dawn sank into my hands like rain. I wanted to evaporate
& ask God to reveal my face. I wanted to speak light
& watch the earth settle into being. Each splash of wilderness
unraveled into clean, solid lines. From there I would leak light.
From there I would take flight, my body sloped & pliant
in this arena of disorder. But in the dark beak of night
that light still shivered. The world with its oblique
tilt. Every day I arrived & arrive. My physique light,
my mouth blazing verse. With prayer I swill inward
those weeks I lie rooted. Flood my cheek, light
traveling into all skin: I am learning to find pleasure
in uncertainty. Teach me your technique, light.
Wait for it to come to you, I heard once in a car. O radiant
risk, I am ready. Give me your mystique, light.
Untouched by flame, my father now shakes his hair
that suddenly grows to its full, shiny length—an antique light.