Trapped (On My Father's Death)

I seek a way out through my father;
past ancient grief,
past eroded bricks of this city.

I seek reprieve, seek blessing, most of all seek love.
I seek to capture a dove
in my two bare hands.

I have nailed doors shut and windows.
I am not a thief, but graffiti sting,
written in ink of my skin.

I sit like Jack Horner in a corner
with this Christmas pie.
The plum that pops out is a blackbird.

It is my cry, a cry for all time that is wordless,
begun in pain
and grown up in despair to complaint.

I am that cry, the cry of a child seeking justice.

Roots drive plants up toward the light
so that snakes may go
and the plow sink its blade deep in sod.

Toward God my father walks before me.
The tick of his stick
leads the way up the asphalt road.