On a Tuesday morning, in a shoal of spring light,
the answer to what’s left to learn about love? is my father
small beside the hundred-gallon kettle. I’m here
to see the microbrewery that he owns, returning
for the first time in many years, my chaperone—
among lambics & wort, he translates for me.
Beneath the kettle, his heart is the raft of wild iris
on the bank of the drainage creek outside that leads
away from here, & his heart is the flathead carp
in his fealty of silt. I love, too—sometimes like this,
& sometimes like this. My father wipes dust
from the little kettle window with his fingertips,
tracing circles until the grain becomes visible.
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