on fathers & swords

in the beginning was the gold rush. a time to strip sunlight from our temples.
suffering & its technology summoned a feeling. for the sake of resemblance & record,
yes, i was sick with consumption. paratactic again. made without worry as the water
(always the water) curdled. rose like a myth. as all is said was done. underneath
anesthetics, ordinary clamor, who will translate: reader, i opened onto his fist &
therein was the poem. my confessional self. ran through, rendered f/or rent. another
music could should accommodate me, meanwhile.

radiant with need, i watch the men—Kendall, Marty, Don—manifest then sob in the
sand. what was done as done. an industry of inertia in their shoulder blades. let me tell
you as i was told: days call for a citizen, darling. of emaciated retinas, a soft sight.
imperial optimism—chic. had i known what quotidian would cost. would i lie first.
wrench cardamom from between my teeth. amble towards intention. what kind of
denial could i be a wife to. allow to hound the seams. because, after it was taken i gave
it away. an urge to repeat oneself remains.
 

Copyright © 2024 by Jayson P. Smith. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on August 20, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets. 

Subscribe to the Poem-a-Day Podcast 

  

“I was asked to write about loss and excess while heartbroken, pulling swords from my tarot deck daily. Succession and This is Us aired every week. The fathers (and their sons) were everywhere; I was surrounded by avatars. This poem is an attempt to speak alongside the (distinctly American) ambitions, anxieties, and loneliness I continue to see in these performances. I wrote, ‘Some men organize their lives around loss,’ and the poem followed. I chose the prose form hoping I would not lie.”
—Jayson P. Smith