Dreams of Flying

My dad said

he used to have dreams 

of flying

over the power lines

of his childhood home. 

As the crow flies,

he’d float twelve miles

to Jones Beach

and sing with the seagulls. 

When I talk to him now, 

his lip quivers,

and his eyes are pools of lost dreams.

He says he found the Lord

and when he prays, 

he asks God to bring him joy again. 

My dad said

I want you to live a good life.

Buried beneath the syntax,

I wondered if he felt like his own

wings had turned to iron. 

He used to own a pool cue, 

and every time someone he loved died,

he’d carve a cross into the wood. 

I counted eighteen crosses once.

The morning I left home,

I watched him shrink in my rearview mirror

and even though I’m agnostic,

I pleaded with the universe, 

with God, 

with anything, 

to answer his prayer.

My dad said

he’s not tethered to this world. 

I think he wants Heaven

to have the hexagons of boardwalk umbrellas

and powerlines

he can float over.

This poem was originally published by Sink Hollow in 2021.

Sink Hollow, Vol. 10, No. 1 [2021], Art. 1
https://issuu.com/sinkhollow/docs/sink_hollow_issue_10_final p. 9