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.