Open Heart Surgery On My Father
(after John Rybicki)
My whole life I’ve played
a silver instrument, a hand-me-down
scalpel with a checkered handle
that really belongs on a pistol.
My whole damn life I’ve said
if only he were a different man
with different eyes and different ideas
I might have had a chance.
But when they wheel him in on the gurney
sheets the color of ocean at dusk
and ask me to save him, I have to say yes.
With my mouth I say yes. With my blade
I say yes, and starting at the top
of his sternum I cut my father open.
As I run the red line to his belly
I think maybe I’ll finally see
the contents of this man
who’s lived a life as secret as a vault
inside a vault.
I’m the expert, the great trespasser of blood,
and no incision has ever been made so straight.
The ribs swing open like haunted doors,
the corridor of his body sings darkly,
and somewhere inside him I hear my own voice.
My father’s heart is filled with mistakes
knotted veins of untold love,
and I’m not sure which wire to cut
to untangle them.