A grey absorbent stone
is between my father's temples.
He perches the stillpoint of experience
there for me.
He and I are an obliging pool,
clinging to this stone.
I yield to this sanctuary.
My time with him has constant slippage.
What he wants, can't be helped.
He hammers his stone.
I live between my winces.
The ripples from his hammering
are humorous to me.
I give my father a mask.
His solemnness becomes pretentious.
Privately, I swallow the laughing waves.
When he is like this,
I lack for air.
He also makes me wear the mask.
He says, "it helps me," with his eyes.
I gulp down the wellspring of confusion
from his glance.
My head hurts from him seeing me this way.
He gets relief administering to me.
I die with each grey chip I hide from him.
He hammers a few more whacks, fracturing me.
My mask is wet with tears.
Some day, I will have more chips
than he has stone.
The stillpoint in me acts nervous,
wants relief in the sky.
I finally look at the hammer for myself.
I don't want to fall into his act.
I hold tightly to my mask.
He tightly to his hammer.
We embrace this way,
I suppose.
I forget to breathe.
The wincing reminds me of my place.
Our heads hurt separately,
for apparently different reasons.
Finally I put all the chips in my mouth.
My stillness soon will fly away.
Maybe I will throw the mask after it.
And hopefully, he, the hammer . . .
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