RECALLING
In Thailand I am standing
on one flat riverboat packed
with the hot jostling of people and
my father is on another, departing,
pulling away. The water is black,
oil-slicked; churning from the way
they pass so close by like bodies
releasing from an embrace. I
know he must have been calling me
because I jumped and I don't remember
the other boat, only
the lip of the right boat:
How the rubber coating had
worn away from other feet
in other shoes, landing. The wood,
water-warped, exposed.
And it is often like that. Nothing recalled
exactly how it happened; only
one moment in transit: a mold
waiting to be cast.
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