Imperfect Ghazal on Weightless Living
for my father
My father’s hands flapped in a spiral of smoke—a weak light.
What did I dream then, a child drenched in image? Sleek light,
falling honeyed rivers, purpled fruit. What did I need
to imagine my body, calm in migration? I wanted to seek light.
Dawn sank into my hands like rain. I wanted to evaporate
& ask God to reveal my face. I wanted to speak light
& watch the earth settle into being. Each splash of wilderness
unraveled into clean, solid lines. From there I would leak light.