Rightly, wrongly, some things
I hang on my father: a sarcophagus
locket, token of a museum
draped in borrowed winding
sheets (from Turin, God's raisin face;
from Luxor, Tut tangled mid-
metamorphosis, rich man
to river birch). Rightly, wrongly: brain
chemistry, a fearsome ribbon
of syrup at the base of a flask
and dreams higher proof than the dram,
doors that will not lock,
doors that won't open.
On me, my father hung his binoculars,
armored, brass, tubes
of viridescence on a plastic
lace. He taught me to look. Some things
that weigh like dread we can fly.
Jane Zwart teaches at Calvin University, where she also co-directs the Calvin Center for Faith & Writing. Her poems have appeared in Poetry, The Southern Review, Threepenny Review, TriQuarterly, and Ploughshares, as well as other journals and magazines.