Sleeve of Memory

He taught me no
two blows sound the same,
a ringing still lives in my ear
singing a song called

be quiet. I've hidden his gold rings
in my throat, near
the little boy—his face buried
in his palms, ready to catch

not tears but the butterflies
his stomach
spills from his eyes-we share
a body that doesn't know

where to run. Neither of us remember
hearing the word son
or how to embrace someone in the eyes
when they say, I love.

Don't think, That is such a shame. It's not.
To remember things as they
were is counterintuitive
for survival. I love my father.

See how I did that. I changed
the color of the sky by closing
my eyes & opening a bottle
he didn't drink. If I were anything.