A Father's Day Poem (by Laura Orem)

The Astronomer

 

Before I knew I couldn’t fly,

            my father would bundle

                        my green corduroy coat over my pajamas

and take me into the January-cold front yard

            to count the stars.

                        I leaned against him, following

the long arc of his arm

            as he pointed up and up,

                        the stars springing from his fingertips

to spin hazily through the sweet smoke

            of his pipe.

                        He named the constellations, mispronouncing

words he’d only read, not heard,

            and said if he had a sextant

                        he’d teach me to navigate

by the night sky.

            I knew if I let go of his arm

                        I would fall upward into the heavens

and soar, infinite as an angel,

            Cassiopeia, Orion, Ursa Major breaking

                        open beneath my belly.

My sockless feet, frigid in their overshoes,

            stood on tiptoe, but I did not quite dare

                        to let go.

The tweedy scratch of his jacket on my cheek

            anchored me as sure as gravity

                        to him, the only solid place

at the center of the universe.

for Joe Pinto, 1917-1982

Comments

[JAE]

Laura, that ending is a heartbreaker. My guess is you can still conjure the feeling of that scratchy cheek. Love to you.

[Anne Caston]

Laura, this is a beautifully-wrought poem. What a terrific memorial to your father. Love to you, Anne

[Stacey]

A knockout. Thanks Laura.

[Terence Winch]

Dear L: Terrific piece, so full of darkness and light. Thanks for it.

[Eric Bourland]

Sweet. Thank you.

[early wynn]

Love to you, Laura.