My Father's Wound

Avocado trees on the moon.Aichigum, mullukumb, Billy Blue Gum. This is not exactly a confessional. My father’s wound was also my wound, dirt outside Vedanta Hall, blood in the dirt below the gutter pipe, blood like washing undone in my banian fold. I am not saying that blood was the thing. My father was singing. From the tall narrow barred window, the gravel driveway, in the heat, my father’s wound is jelly to the touch. I touch it now. * A broken tree on the floor. Tarzan says, “Tarzan save Vivek father wound.” “The shadow before State House, he will ride his bike no more.” Once, I looked up from paper and saw the clouds move. It was terrible, that clouds could move. The clouds moving reminded me of my father’s wound. I don’t care if you like this, * I am going to take my time. My father came back from a hernia operation, there had been a mistake, the stitches had to be removed. Every day I had seen him shaving in the bathroom, whistling Balamurali’s songs. * “If you’re going to write a poem about me,” my father says, “don’t forget to mention my daily yoga.” * There is a large glass door looking onto the pool. My father cleared that place up. Surrealism only matters if it’s real. I listen to Michael, Mr. Mister, Genesis. On Kyrie, I saw a massive bird block the sky while I blasted the song from the car stereo to the playground and the driver sat quietly. Did I mention we had a driver? He drove me around when my father had his wound and could not move. * I betrayed the wound. I see it half-formed, my mother washing him, his long painful yelps. This was scary, to hear those animal sounds. My mother went in there instead of me. Splashing. A red oval among the ripples.