The Father

They want to find their father. They say
He wanders the emptiness. They say he has
Never been loved. They say they search for him
Until the sun punctures sky. The blue lamp
In the motel window darkened by summer.
We dream of an existence blemished
By quiet violet hyacinth. We dream of
Strangers. The black room. The lake
Sparkled with spit. The waves reaching
Dock. The waves retreating. The window
Reflecting yourself, not the parking lot,
Or the yard. The yard buried with noise.
The noise reaching the core of ourselves.
Ourselves, lost. Asleep in the backseat.
Waking to our father, distant, reserved—
Stars like fish caught in hooks, shoulders
Frozen, a dark shattered bell in his arms.