Object Permanence

DAN MURPHY

The Adirondack Review

SUMMER 2017

That things exist, even when out of sight.

I see my father play peekaboo,

think of my new daughter, when she’ll learn

he isn’t gone, but hiding behind his hands.

I see my father play peekaboo

those palms opening and shutting like doors:

he isn’t gone. But hiding behind his hands

is the parlor of his mother’s house,

those palms opening and shutting like doors

fill the room with neighbors and aunts. This  

is the parlor of his mother’s house,

this is his brother being waked.

Fill the room with neighbors and aunts, this

the first of his brothers and sisters dead;

this is his brother being waked,

laid out in a short casket, a haze of smoke,

the first of his brothers and sisters dead,

two more before he reached the age of three

laid out in a short casket, a haze of smoke,

chips of ice from the icebox melting in whiskey.

Two more before he reached the age of three

stamped out like cardboard in the soles of his shoes,

chips of ice from the icebox melting in whiskey,

men hushed under the trumpets of war,

stamped out like cardboard in the soles of his shoes.

His father laced boots to fight, too,

men hushed under the trumpets of war,

figurines molded with pointed rifles ready,

his father laced boots to fight, too,

leaving the house and street to him, his grandpa, mum,

figurines molded with pointed rifles ready

to scrap for slugs, shells, tanks, canteens, the Allies,

leaving the house and street to him, his grandpa, mum.

And then Pa O’Connor himself leaves

to scrap for slugs, shells, tanks, canteens, the allies

behind the alley, his rough hands in fists.

And then Pa O’Connor himself leaves 

altogether, a lilt like a drop lingering on his tongue

behind the alley, his rough hands in fists.

And there is a certain immanence in that

altogether. A lilt like a drop lingering on his tongue:

Go mbeirimíd beo ar an am seo arís.

And there is a certain immanence in that

we may live to see this time again next year.

Go mbeirimíd beo ar an am seo arís.

I think of my daughter, when she’ll learn 

we may live to see this time again next year,

that things exist, even when out of sight.

DAN MURPHY lives in the Boston area with his two young daughters, Zoë and Saša, his wife, Alison, and his black lab, Sammy. A former carpenter, he earned his MFA from Boston University and teaches writing at Suffolk University. He’s previously published in Panhandler Magazine, Blue Collar Review, and Lullwater Review, and has won a number of awards and fellowships for his work.