Not all of this poem resonates with me; it is personal. And yet this last bit feels like something most of us know. Happy Fathers Day to all who celebrate, and to all who pause and remember.
We played catch in the yard
some evenings after work.
Worried I’d fuck it up, I tore
a piece of myself off each time
& threw it back as hard as I could.
I know now you were doing it
too: pulling off pieces of you
& tossing them to me, yelling when
I missed & a chunk of yourself
went skidding into the bushes.
One time a ball split at the seam
midair & landed splayed open,
its insides wound tight & messy
so that, when I pulled the string,
I couldn’t find a beginning or an end.
Esse Diem 