Nothing you’ve learned has taught you
how to bring back the dead
father so you can thank him
for the only inheritance
he could leave you—
dubious talent for stringing
words in every weather: twigs
dark as grief to rub together
in heartbreak, vowels shredded
for kindling or confetti; short-lived
brilliance to loft like soap
bubbles above a clothesline
before the wind breaks them open
and the sidewalk’s printed
with a line of Os, their ink
disappearing along the road
he used to walk with you,
mornings, to take you to school.
In response to Via Negativa: Secondary school.