Only once have I seen my father cry,
when they pulled the cold, dead boy from the lake.

skin pale, as always
and hair the color of Fall.
the red of the sugar maple around his head
and leaves, wet and brown and ugly
on the dull, mud covered clothes.

jesus,
he was a handsome man
tall and strong,
the teacher of play,
the giant who scares the children in bed.

I remember pieces of him,
his hands the size of plates.

I am now as he was, on the edge of life
beginning the road to the rest of the world

But I remember being a little boy
and watching from the bottom of the house,
hearing the phone ring
my father's soft "hello?"
followed by choking sobs
of thoughts of brother gone

And myself,
my five year old mind unsure about
why or how, and
'is he crying?' I think.
then and now
i see only soft blue coffin
and bright red hair
and earth.