Father  #78
October 28, 1998

his wooden hair
combed to the right
like a world war II helmet.

He is wearing my brother's eyes 
that slightly droop under his
eyebrows of sparrow's breath.
A nose of a general
noteworthy, almost truthful.

His ears like small shells
of cuddle bone.
Lips of youth, lips that 
are not his gently pressed 
into a whisper.

My chin and cheeks covered
by a shadow that falls like 
the scent of summer rain
over the right side of his face,
The things I don't 
know about him

because I have never asked.
This is my Father.

Mother

She is wearing her wedding dress 
that has now been laid to rest
in a wood box in the closet.
Her hair in chestnut
eddies of starry night,
her veil a moon halo.
.
She has my porcelain 
cheeks like dew
and a smile that
she has never worn for me,
.
that I have not worn for another.
.
Her eyes like beads on a string
An off center pinhole of light
reflect a distant blue
of present tenses and things
she knows not of me
.
because I have never told her.
This is my Mother.