I suddenly remember that last year my father
planted three saplings in his garden, each one
standing for one of his three sons, and I fly
outside into the evening rain to take them in
and wonder which one was meant to be me.
A walnut, pear, and plum, all far too young
for fruit. If they swapped places in the dark
I would never notice. Two perhaps too close
for non-obstructive growth, the third shunted
to a corner like a timed-out toddler, head held
high still—and rising, even, at the speed of age.
Every promise is a plant. Yes, that also works
the other way around. Everything promised
grows, and outward, and eats the air and eats
the air. I promise that one day after everyone
is dead I’ll bring my father home to his trees
and hoist him up, my hands clapped cold and
fast to his forgotten knees, and he will globe
his arms and gather every fruit and nut, catch
each one in his open, waiting, oceanic shirt,
and, leaving behind a trail of fat green tears,
glossy knots, and purple eyes, we’ll steal
through my childhood streets in the night
and the wind and with my father swaying
on my shoulders like a star’s slow flame.