Father Outside - Nick Flynn


A black river flows down the center
of each page


& on either side the banks
are wrapped in snow. My father is ink falling


in tiny blossoms, a bottle
wrapped in a paperbag. I want to believe
that if I get the story right


we will rise, newly formed,


that I will stand over him again
as he sleeps outside under the church halogen
only this time I will know


what to say. It is night &
it's snowing & starlings
fill the trees above us, so many it seems


the leaves sing. I can't see them
until they rise together at some hidden signal


& hold the shape of the tree for a moment
before scattering. I wait for his breath
to lift his blanket


so I know he's alive, letting the story settle


into the shape of this city. Three girls in the park
begin to sing something holy, a song
with a lost room inside it


as their prayerbook comes unglued


& scatters. I'll bend
each finger back, until the bottle


falls, until the bone snaps, save him


by destroying his hands. With the thaw
the river will rise & he will be forced
to higher ground. No one


will have to tell him. From my roof I can see
the East River, it looks blackened with oil


but it's only the light. Even now
my father is asleep somewhere. If I followed


the river north I could still reach him.