David Moody
Creation Theory
Assume we need a father.
Make him a figment,
Christ-like, a king, a carpenter,
Arthur with hammer and saw.
Give him nails of all different types:
flat head and box nails, 5/8th in fistfuls,
but make sure the hammer bangs his thumb.
Watch him close then. Make sure he can bruise.
He should have filament eyes,
should shine but be hard
as hail that needles harvest soil,
should be something of sapphire
but smell of charcoal and ember.
He has to be calloused, be old.
And if this alchemy fails,
then azaleas will dance
like steak knives swirling in a basin of dishes
with leftover bones and petals and suds.
Should a father be out there
when we slice open our palm
then he will come cursing our blood,
the inspired edges, the whole damn regime
of long-bladed things. Bed time or not,
he’ll tuck us all in.
Instead of good night,
he will whisper his name.
