Daddy’s face was our Central Park We ran on the banks of his mouth We sledded on the hill of his nose We made faces at ourselves in the ponds of his eyes We jumped ropes behind his ears We biked through his cheeks and played hide and seek under his mustache
But when he shaved and nicked his skin and cotton balls found a ground to hold onto his face to stop the blood, playtime was over: Weariness slithered through our veins and cold chills sifted through our marrows. Until
he took them off lumped them in his hand and pretended to gobble them down—white fluffs tinged with red We laughed, cautiously then: Mighty God musing with cotton candies.
I see my father’s face spread on Central Park’s sprouting grass White tents like his cotton balls sprawled over the nicks to stop the blood Green and navy logo printed on the sides, but no cotton candies in hands NYC, beauty queen, Where do we run? What ropes do we jump? What hills do we ride or sled? Where do we hide? and what do we seek?
NYC, beauty queen, Skies foggy, streets mute. Hearts crouched where the moon was supposed to shine But no. I say, no. You can’t break at the edge of a disaster like a wave Rise. Get up. Kick like the insolent you are Make me laugh at my father’s cotton balls Take them off his face so that I can play again Kick. Rise. Rise. Stand up Get up and dance, Gypsy that you are—golden anklets under the night stars.