If I am his father, I am not good. There is nothing
gentle about me. My hands, the crown of feathers
I position on his scalp. If I am his keeper I am white flag,
candle milk dripping over an open flame, I am sea.
If I am his father, I am fishing him from the water,
cast-off child, salt beading his eyelashes.
I am pummeling him into waves and it is a question,
the uneven weight dictating his body causeway, canal.
The kestrels clipping through the water. I have seen him
sometimes with the men on the shore, counting their arrows.
Watching them empty the sky. If I am his keeper I am steeple,
I am eating their sound. If I am his father, he is fatherless.