sometimes, you reduce himto this:the place at the back of his headwhere the hairs have begun to fall outstill, he becomes the size of a small balloonswelling in your chest.inside,he sits on a chair in front of a houseyou are afraid of everything your father’s eyes have touchedthese walls toowhere his picture hangs soft with a bricklayer’s handand his secret womenhow, like the old boulders by River Ethiope,they have become alive with pain.watermarkshow my mother’s husband sits in this picture holding a tobacco pipelegislating love and pain between puffseverywhere you see a crack on the wallyour heart breaks open some more.