by Alexis Romano
I love to call you
Father, but my
mother—my first love—lifts me
up
like a gift. She is
as long as a dirt road.
The two of us twirl like the dead
and I know. I know nothing
—present tense!—
about my father. He is thin as a twig.
I love being
like him—my dad—always changing like fish
like him—Father—always left pissing in the sea
like him—Thomas—always springing from the earth
always
waiting like a good child
for my mother—my first love—who asks and waves wine bottles:
Alexis, do I know you?
