for my father My father’s hands flapped in a spiral of smoke—a weak light. What did I dream then, a child drenched in image? Sleek light, falling honeyed rivers, purpled fruit. What did I need to imagine my body, calm in migration? I wanted to seek light. Dawn sank into my hands like rain. I wanted to evaporate & ask God to reveal my face. I wanted to speak light & watch the earth settle into being. Each splash of wilderness unraveled into clean, solid lines. From there I would leak light. From