THE SEED OF ME

My father sits on the edge of his bed in a t-shirt,
angling a foot into the leg of faded pajamas.
His feet are sluiced with deltas of blue veins
fed by knotted tributaries that corrode a milky skin
on legs that have carried him to this distant place.

His loins are exposed and he is not embarrassed,
the loins from which the seed of me burst out
on a pleasant April night in Canyon Crest.
His legs were strong then and my mother was strong
and by July, I was strong in her womb.

But now these pajamas claim his full attention,
one leg; then the other leg; a forced rest;
and once over his knees he labors to stand
to pull them up over his wilted buttocks;
he falls to the bed; lays his head in dry fingers

and withdraws to that damp cell where he often goes,
but lately spends most of his quickly passing time.
Although he goes alone, I think I know the place:
the entry is always nearby, the way out hidden,
purple with the vermin of doubt and the vapors of regret.

THE OCCASIONAL FIRE

POEMS
Life Scroll
Spirit Wings
Death in the Family
Flight Chief
Legacy
Honeymoon Photo, October, 1939
49 Chevy
The Seed of Me
We Drove East on Highway 10 to Ritzville
Land of Rest
On Allison's Leaving
Telecom's Bequest
Starbucks, Tuesday, 3:36 p.m.
Action Still
Vital Meaning
Fools

HYMNS
God will not let us go
The rising sun blazed out of night
Light! Light! A shattering light
Worship the Lord
As a doe

ABOUT MARK RHOADS