II: Dad

The inevitable arithmetic of income and of chance
was my father's father's lust.
He had hands like hubcaps
that could engulf your hands
and a narrow-eyed East European smile
no one would trust.

I've never seen my father naked
but once when I was sitting at the cottage table
my grandfather walked through
behind my back.
Now my imagination returns repeatedly
like a steady mindless stream
to break around the rock of what I didn't see:
my grandfather firm with age
browned by a Florida sun
standing on a northern summer dock
fishing naked,
a vision centred on a spacious dream.

A cunning rapist of experience,
he had money, advantage, and
women at every door.
Dying of a hospital disease,
he willed my father drink and a sordid confusion
and left him crying in his love
you damned old bugger
and feeling the soft brown rottenness
at life's core.