My father’s hands were always warm.
When I was small I pushed the office door
open with my elbows, shivering against grey paint,
carrying cords like a live sacrifice
through corally unsteady winds,
and asked Dad to fix the Walkman,
to turn the fat air off before the blood froze
behind my eyes and stopped
breath from its natural lung-exit.
This was my request and I was sure of him then.
He smiled, his voice floated down
like melted icing sugar and shrunk into the oyster desk,
‘It’s too hot,’ he said.
So I gripped his hands
to mine, warm as tea
on winter’s morning at Nan’s house.
He said, ‘I’ve always been warm.’ And I wanted to climb
into his chest, to be warm always.
Please read Comment Guidelines before submitting a comment