The old man is made of the hearts of dead spiders from the woodshed
I am my father’s matador
A small spark against a great fire
Showed me you can build a house from broken glass
Better swallow ashes to stay warm
Spiders crawl up my arms and throat
From the firewood in my hands
We rub mud on our faces to see each other better
I write FATHER on his forehead with my finger
He writes SUNRISE between my eyes
I cling to memories from beneath my fingernails
Like closet frozen marionettes
Gun shots crawl out of his jaws at night
And grow like fruit at the end of his fingers
I pick them and leave them on the breakfast table
He keeps fish hooks between my toes so
He can pull me up by the line
But I’m still watching the sunrise from his shoulders
I know he’s made of rain
When he pours me a bath from his bones
A child might play in.