3 poems

Alex Schillinger

My Father’s Right Hand

My father’s right hand lifts me up in one motion, quieting my sorrow in his arms. This is how he taught me to love.

My father’s right hand dwarfs mine in his, moving slowly so that I could learn every shape. This is how he taught me our handshake. 

My father’s right hand folds three fingers in his palm and lifts his thumb into a hammer, his left hand meets the outside of his right wrapping his fingers around the improvised grip. This is how he taught me to shoot. 

My father’s right hand meets his left, each finger on one precedes its counterpart, locking his hands in place. He bows his head but says nothing, he just mouths the words, of which I can only make out, “thank you.” This is how he taught me to pray. 

My father’s right hand strikes swiftly and once, only ever once. This is how he taught me to respect. 

My father’s right hand pulls himself up again, for what seems like the 1,000th time in a row before letting go. This is how he taught me strength. 

My father’s right hand holds steady the saw as his left holds the board in place and his eye holds the line he swears he measured twice, but still it comes up short. This is how he taught me to build. 

My father’s right hand doesn’t bleed like I thought when he pulls it from the drywall of our hallway, but he washes it anyway to rid himself of the fury as much as the dust. This taught me nothing, of which I’m sure he’s glad.

My father’s right hand holds a pen between his index finger and thumb, resting it against his middle. This is how he taught me to write.

My father’s right hand gently pats the belly of our dog who receives it as most dogs do, with an insatiable desire for more—my father gladly acquiesces. This is how he taught me to care. 

My father’s right hand cracks at the tips of his fingers in the dry January air, but he won’t have time to work on it next week. This is how he taught me clairvoyance. 

My father’s right hand has small cuts around the knuckles and on the palm from where branches broke off in his grasp or when hammers missed their marks. This is how he taught me resilience. 

My father’s right hand bruises more easily, typical with his diagnosis, but his skin looks thinner as if his bones could move independently from it and the marks from the needles just won’t heal. When I ask him if it hurts he says, “yes.”. This is how he taught me to hate. 

My father’s right hand replaces his King with his Rook, much more slowly than before. This is how he taught me endurance.

My father’s right hand swells to three times its size before he sees a doctor who tells him they’d have to try radiation. This is how he taught me fear. 

My father’s right hand could barely move without pain, but when we left he still used it to grab my shoulder in an embrace I’m sure he feared would be our last. This is how he taught me courage. 

My father’s right hand lifts me up in one motion, quieting my sorrow in his arms. This is how he taught me to say goodbye.

There's one more line in this poem I can’t bring myself to write. One more lesson my father taught me, but one I’m not sure I ever wanted to learn. This is how he taught me.

4.26

You said you couldn’t see through the smoke
Needed a closer look, pushed up against me
And felt Chekhov’s Gun.

You said, “Don’t put it there,
Unless you plan on using it later.”

We fell asleep on a mattress on the floor, naked–
Holding on to one another, afraid 

to drift. In the morning you took a 
drag from a leftover joint and said 
It reminded you of me.

I'm a drag.
I'm bad weed in an old joint.

I'm the taste of smoke running over your tongue.
I'm stale, but still you breathe me in
And out.

When you left, 
you only touched my arm and smiled.
You smiled when you touched my arm.

I watched from the window when you drove away
And killed the joint with coffee.

A poet explains his work

He asks a question.
One he answers with a leaf
From a tree native to another place.

Or with a piece of dust
Whose gravity is less than
The force of the wind that moves it.

He answers it with a stanza 
About an ex-lover
Who last year forgot his name

When, in the aisle of a Kroger
He called out to her and she smiled,
She waved, she turned and walked away.

He answers it, then forgets the question 
Gets lost in the details of a flower,
A perennial, unaware of his own metaphor

And falls deeply into grief, 
A sorrow he has yet to articulate,
And there he rests for there is nothing left to write.