Exile

[the facade]

Exile

As if in a dream
comes my father
with steps streaming sand
like a battleship
that loves and lives water,
but can only leave it waked.

From pockets so deep
they have turned
inside out -
swell cascades of sand.

He shakes my hand,
and hands me
a fistful
of sand.

Dad smiles, sand stuck
in between his teeth
like priests bridging churches.
"We're made out of the same",
he says, and I realize
I have forgotten
that the sand is
slowly sifting through my fingers.

It is a rare moment
when you find
yourself in time's waiting
room, but it seem
appropriate that the man
on your left
is the person
you could have been.
He says:
"We will never see
each other again"
and returns to his magazine.
From the couch
opposite me
comes my grandfather
with steps streaming sand
and talks about duty.
But despite the bleak
words he says
"Away now! I'll see you
here anyway, in this
place where sand is
just a word. Away now!"

So I took the sand,
put in my shallow pockets,
thanked my father with an embrace,
And I left him there.