I have spent a lot of time trying to piece together
the memories of my father
that can be detailed in short songs
and littered with vibrant colors
like paint by number novelties
sans numbers and touched off
with enough cups of oil base
to make a pyromaniac shed tears of joy
when he sees a government subsidized apartment complex
slated by parks and planning to become
a farmers market and rubber soled playground.
I thought I had one. A good one.
Snug Harbor on Staten Island.
You asked me if I could remember
the time you taught me how to throw a frisbee and
I said no,
but I was lying.
I remembered how you showed me
how to tuck the plastic disk in tight to my armpit
and let my arm whip forward
across the plane of my shoulders,
thumb loose and index finger pointing
to where I wanted it to go
and then I remembered
how you'd throw it to me
so high
I thought it would never come down.
The red disc carved air.
So much air. I thought you were
the strongest man in the world, watching it go
and running
as hard as my legs would take me.
But it stopped up there.
It hung like a plate dancing on the end of the staff
of a circus performer and
cut backward
and the little cups of paint ran dry
before the canvas could begin to coalesce
into something pretty
when my ears heard your laughter peal out anew
as the frisbee returned
and kissed the back of my head
like the flat of your hand and
it was all I could do to not cry
and pretend it was an accident
of memory.
