My father taught me to write
in books
Ones full of words, throbbing with ideas
One day I picked up a book
of his, it smelled like a good memory
I opened to a random chapter
my eyes saw a square bracket
herding a phrase together
I went to ask my father
about the marks he had made.
– Once you wade into a river,
you must remember where
you cast your line.
I ran those words over in my head.
Like an old coin you weave
through your fingers, the
rhythm of the unconscious.
I was reluctant to carve up
this soul I spent money on.
My first attempt was in pencil.
A book of poetry I left at
a girlfriend’s house.
I went back to the store to buy
my own copy. It still looked the
same as the last one, unwanted
memories crawling out of its spine.
I wrote in the book
like a draft of my own.
My pencil skated through pages,
my head engorged in the words.
I couldn’t wipe off the excitement.
Months later, I told my father about
this book I had devoured.
He picked it up, pencil marks
leaping at him like headlines.
– Someone has studied this.
He said.
– Oh, that was me.
I muttered.
– That’s interesting.
A smile rippled through him.
For a second I could see
pride splash in his eyes,
a curious carp coming to the surface.
PhilosopherPoet
