papa's suits are hanging above his cedar chest
the vest-black silk is smooth,
the mole hair cat's-tongue a small corrosive on my cheek
below, inside, the chest is an oven of smells
wind-drifted bits of red iron
mote rust in the dry heat of the hayloft air
my cheek hovers above the cured pine of the front porch rail
my nose following an imaginary line where a blackgreen beetle
has just passed
his beetle-back must have smelled of
earth under leaves
three days after a storm, another coming
stark and cold and moldy
in the dwindling day
when god calls down the flood again,
I'll hear the rain against the windows
and empty out the chest
and invite the front porch beetle
to ride with me,
in a vessel impromptu,
upon the waves
he'll stand upon my shoulder, six legs straining taut
his nose turned skyward from the reek of cedar
after all the clouds have cleared away,
we'll bitch about our fathers
(our nostrils rimmed with salt)
and laugh up towards the burning sun
the fence-posts, the mailbox, the rafters of the barn
all submerged below
nibbled,
all,
by creatures of the sea