Creation Myth of My Father

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The Meadow Journal, 2023

He cracks his elbows

on his mother’s young

death. At the funeral, 

adults say, Stay

out of the way. 

His calves grow stone

hitchhiking gravel. He lights

a driver’s cigarette,

and also his beard.

Blows from bar fights

across his chest. And a woman 

latched to his back defending

her boyfriend. His face, boxing-glove

leather. He’s skinning a deer. Just one 

rodeo. His fingers 

and knees—concrete

trucks grind sunrise. 

He sets a teenage wife down 

among cactus, antelope, and twenty below.

There’s a broken baby

who can be fixed for $30,000, 

three too early to live, and two outside

putting pennies on the train track. 

He’s a forest so big, we hide 

and seek through him. A map 

we check so often, 

we never learn

the direction of the trails. 

He’s a bridge I’ve crossed 

so many times, I don’t

know how I’ll swim.