Papou

A Poem by Anthony J

For the man I never met.

In my head, he's a razor cheeked kid with a mouth dagger that can cut skin or spread butter equally.

Knickers and black shoes buckled, belt middling, cherub eye creases with cunning gleams.

He probably played stickball made bridges in sand pits kissed girls and sent them screaming

when he took the legs off of spiders. I never knew him but I’d wager

that he appreciated a good sunset, silently, the way sunsets should be treated. Those are the rules.

In my head he was normal looking and when he saw her he got fuzzy and smiled awkward with too much teeth. She was some kind of angel from heaven or the Greek Isles, somewhere far,

and he could see the strings of heritage tied round her body at the shoulder blades. It was a shotgun wedding

at a firing range. Not out of place. A human spiral of dance, eye glints and wine-red teeth reflecting the moon.

In my head, he was an awkward lover who didn’t mind. He saw the thrown rice falling and thought

maybe that’s snow or purity or maybe its just rice. Small grains in the thousands like migrants from air to tuxedo.

In my head he stood silent in doorways and watched his boys play. The jobs made his feet drag,

but he danced for their smiles and felt their eyes search. Solemn type, war aware, weary of work,

willing. Willing to callous for them, for her. Still gave her awkward smiles with too much teeth through a cigarette. Ate cake on his birthday and got exercised at the television. Imagined the life the kids would have

under the wool covers before bed, toes cold, heart warm, tossing and seeing a bar exam passed,

a future college thriving.

In my head he watched their feet grow and thought how fast, like racecars. He remarked at time passing, at broadening shoulders and voice cracks. Thought how much like him, how small and cunning,

pulling the legs off of spiders and blowing dandelions. Knickers and belts, next moment

graduation gowns. He saw the strings of heritage tied at their shoulder blades, bright as hers, bright as his.

And in my head, he had a quick wit and a sharp smile that he could flash at you underneath the laughs

of all the others. There would be moments when the heritage silks of the company at dinner made loud webs across the ceiling, and his eyes would flick to yours below, and you shared a short moment, a joke, and wrapped your souls in a woven blanket of language and shared places. I don’t know for sure, but I’d bet

that his heart was a beehive, and it made honey that flowed out and encased moments like amber.

In my head, he had a warm coat that was fun to hug, though few did. And I may be wrong, but in my head,

he’s smiling down. In my head, my head has some of his in it. I can feel him lightly pulling at my shoulder blades like kite strings in a soft Greek breeze.