(after Patrick Kehoe’s Longing)
On the grey-blue sea, the water sparkles
like a mermaid’s tail, and in the distance,
the Sirens, too far to hear. Rain falls from a low sky.
When my father threw seeds to pigeons
on his balcony, I also saw him stretch his arm
to the sky, point his finger to a bird;
I was caught in his unknowingness.
Later, when he watched the evening news,
I learned that he was trapped by earth.
Waves spill over rocks, and salt air gathers
in corners; they tricked me, he wrote
on the back of a receipt. He hung ceramic ducks
on his walls, paintings of the beach,
stored his clay-target rifles in a cabinet.
It is a crescent moon; I will not sail tonight.
The sea is flat, and the Thames is far.
