Red Door 33

POETRY
Driving home
to a place where my parents still// clung to an American hope// I pull the car over// write
a bad haiku about the little urn// my kid brother gave me// to give to my aunt// so she
can spread my father’s ashes// over their parents’ graves// I don’t check the canister//
to see if there are remnants of him// inside// I call the haiku// Schrödinger’s Dad// laugh
a bit// in the cold spring air// So many of these breaks// from being tethered to a body//
have to do with layered traditions// Your skeleton is at the bottom of a pile// of coats//
in a spare bedroom// in some kin’s queer home// your spirit// is pacing its attic// while
the elders drink whiskey and talk of the newly departed’s// rawest moments in the sun//
Or what you imagine your spirit to be// the cobbled memories clasping the left hand of
intent// like that old church rhyme// about steeples// The last time you were here//the
old man was paying for dinner on the rivers’ edge// and pointing out the bridge where
he and his friends would practice their jackknives// the same brother, then, looking hard
down the banks and squinting// to see those joyful children —dares in their throats;
adrenaline pooling in their reservoirs— How does anyone keep inside the time they are
in// when these stories take crowbars to our presence// birds are everywhere// They are
electrified by instinct// but I like to believe it’s intuition// When I put my portion of dad
in the bird-feed// it was an invitation to follow me to memories he couldn’t be privy to,
otherwise// There are birds the color of prom dresses// white as lake effect// There’s this
one Argentinian theropod I’ve been birding// ever since I stumbled upon its existence//
Who knows if one has ever graced Rochester// which is where I’m from// where boys
become swans// midair// and, gasping for breath, become boys again
Terence Degnan is the author of three books. His most recent, “I Can
Wonder Anything” was published in March (2023). He lives in Brooklyn
with his wife and daughter.
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