The Minutes

MATTHEW DADDONA

Because a shadow

wants to leave you

              but doesn’t know how –

it takes light

years to grow dark

              away from itself,

the way a body

runs its course.

                              My father at rest                             

                              before the day starts,

                                           before I see him walk

                              from his bedroom

                              into the kitchen

                                           it must be sad                                      

                               to be him

                               or see this

                                           and never stop to wonder

                               if he’s being followed

                               by someone

                                           or if it's clean, guileless

                               but then I see my mother

                               and she’s carrying

                                           nothing in her hands

                               and it will not be like this

                               ever, the rest of the day. 

I call this part

shadow play

              I stare as if half-awake

and change something else

a film on the ceiling

              and soon

trees, sun gaps, spouts

and small banter

              excuse themselves

and this is real.

I want to say

              this is real.

                              If I watch my hands

                              long enough

                                          they become borrowed,

                              if we believe 

                              that we are worth more

                                          then it must be true. 

                              My father says pray

                              but what he means is

                                           cup your hands child,

                              watch the water rush

                              from shoal to bank and back

                                           and think of me.

And he is not dead.

He won’t be for a long time.

               It’s gratitude 

that makes me think

about heaviness, so often

               when I hug him 

the way he used to hug me

I think of flesh and bone,

               and blood,

and, if the saying is correct,

if it runs deep 

               between the chambers

then I know the probable

awaits; it’s a bit like 

                rounding the corner

and seeing oneself

for a moment

                stacked next to 

every moment, you say

today I’m going to collect

               the bones

and you stare

for as long as you can,

               you don’t remember moving.

MATTHEW DADDONA is a writer based in New York City. He is a founding member of FLASHPOINT, a spoken word group, as well as the editor of the Tottenville Review. His most recent writing has appeared in The Los Angeles Review of Books, Tin House, The Rumpus, Gigantic, and Forklift, Ohio.

The Adirondack Review

FALL 2014