A Lesson in the Lining

I thought it a treasure map

Channels I could follow

like great-grandfather with his dowsing rod,

that tobacco and animal scent that I can

Still follow—

If I let myself

And I never do

“When I die, can I have your coat?”

He laughed at his prodigal daughter,

begging her hasty inheritance.

Death as real as the phantom prize

She was sure lie at the end of those India-ink paths

a nebulous “when”

an unspoken “if.”

Munchausen stomachaches, to be awake

to rest, on his chest.

Now I follow the map of

fathers sleeping on couches, of harsh words exchanged in kitchens

where children took turns making escape plans.

She tells me I write like him

and that hurts,

when I think about it—

If I let myself

And I never do

I traced dotted lines and dreamed of adventuring

the thrill of discovery, of retrieved archaeology,

but that was a long time ago, deeply controversial.

It’s all dry bones and Genesis refutation

arguing the age of St. Helen’s hot top

breaking under pressure—

As I will, If I let myself

And I haven’t yet

We come. over and again, to that same night

of grandfather’s lost memory, impending

of drowning on dry land

the cruelty that comes from loving hands

the certainty of a father’s death

that would overwhelm—

If I let it

And I never will