I have my father’s hand
but it’s a woman’s hand
it’s my hand
I asked him to use his hands
to draw me an image
to go back to something he abandoned
to use his hands, his mind, for something good
to let his anger and bitterness transform paper and pencil
to leave me wholesome
and sometimes moments came into existence
I asked my father to draw me a siren
he painted three engulfed in waves that resembled them
I didn’t like his point of view, his abstraction, that I couldn’t see their faces
but I’ve kept these rare drawings for years
the moments when my father and I were at peace
in a form of art
finding one another
and the movement of a pen on paper suggested peacefulness
when our mouths were silent
and I watched him use his hands for good
never would I see him as tranquil and steady
my father’s sirens, a daughter’s calling,
what frame could ever hold them?
Croque-Melpomene 