PHONE CALL
By Tony Hoagland
Maybe I overdid it
when I called my father an enemy of humanity.
That might have been a little strongly put,
a slight overexaggeration,
an immoderate description of the person
who at that moment, two thousand miles away,
holding the telephone receiver six inches from his ear,
must have regretted paying for my therapy.
What I meant was that my father
was an enemy of
my humanity
and what I meant behind that
was that my father was split
into two people, one of them
living deep inside of me
like a bad king or an incurable disease—
blighting my crops,
striking down my herds,
poisoning my wells—the other
standing in another time zone,
in a kitchen in Wyoming,
with bad knees and white hair sprouting from his ears.
I don't want to scream forever,
I don't want to live without proportion
like some kind of infection from the past,
so I have to remember the second father,
the one whose TV dinner is getting cold
while he holds the phone in his left hand
and stares blankly out the window
where just now the sun is going down
and the last fingertips of sunlight
are withdrawing from the hills
they once touched like a child.
******
so I have to remember the second father...withdrawing from the hills they once touched like a child.it is at this point that emotions, I would fail to match to words, well up in me. Something like, personal, and yeah, and my dad, and me dad, and well...
every once in a while I have to remind Connor as he attacks me with a plastic sword, or kicks at me with all his might, when we are play fighting that, indeed, I am human an can be hurt, and I'm sure eventually, I'll add to that wrong. My father was.
When I tell Connor that I can be hurt, and that he should be play fighting like I am, he looks at me, unbelievingly, and continues his all out assault. Is there a parent in the world who doesn't understand the feelings of a sacred bull? The sacrificial bull that sustains the world with its blood?