Monthly Archives: January 2025

I Tried: A Father’s Lament

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I’m trying to set up this tent in
the dark.  
          Not city dark, 
          Not country dark,  
          Wilderness Dark.

I’m trying 
          to line these wiggling 
          poles up with the tent seams.
I’m trying 
          to hold this flashlight between
          my cheek and shoulder.
I’m trying 
          to get this impossible 
          rain tarp in place.

I’m trying to be happy and patient.

I’ve     tied     my children     to     trees.
          They’re calling me 
          to untie them
          so they can help.  

I’m trying to do this myself, and I will.

It’s a good thing I tied them 
          Up Tight 
so if they fall asleep they
          Won’t 
                    Fall 
   			  Over.  

I’m trying to 
           drive these anchors into rocks,
           or some close stony relatives
           and ignore the name Rex just called Syd.

I’m trying to fling our food
          over this branch, fifteen feet
          above our heads so the bears
          don’t eat Kate for breakfast.

I’m trying to set up this camp 
          so I can untie my children 
          and lead them straight  
          to the tent and zip them in. 

I’m trying to
          put the sleeping bags on places without roots or rocks
          and I’ve done so for everyone but me.

We sleep.  They sleep.  I try.

I awake.  
My children are outside, unroped, in the light.  
Something big is going on.  
I try to listen.  I cannot hear words. 
     Hushed tones of astonishment,
     admiration.  A large splash.
     Whoops and hollers.

I try to figure out 
why the ranger didn’t tell me 
there was a drop


                              off, 60 feet, 
                              into the lake 
                              on the border 
                              of my campsite.  

I try to figure out 
           how I set up the tent
          five feet from the edge 
          and didn’t fall in.  

I try not to think of how
I     tied     my three children     to     trees
On 
the 
edge
      

       of a cliff.

SAME OLD CABINET

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Same Old Cabinet

In my kitchen, the cabinets began
springing off the wall.
Behind their closed, crooked doors,
seams had separated, and
steadfastness slipped away.

I moved deliberately,
opening doors with care,
stacking dishes gently.
I was tentative and alert,
eyes fixed on the cabinets’
shuddering sinews.
I wanted to bolt.

The weight of their fall, I knew,
would break me with it.
I imagined myself,
broken boxes where
my body used to be,
The wicked witch, only
striped socks and pointy shoes
to show for myself.

Even then, I doubted. I discussed
the situation with friends: “Are you
seeing what I’m seeing?” They nodded
and said, “We told you this already.”

I called the carpenter. I learned the cabinets
could be fixed, but first I’d need to empty them.
I weighed out danger verses
upheaval before telling him yes.

On all my flat surfaces, I built
wobbly stacks of plates and glasses,
jars and cans. The carpenter left behind
gouged walls and a fine dust
that filled my lungs.

Outside the kitchen’s empty, ugly landscape,
I organized the chaos, carving out space
to eat, and work, and dream.

In the carpenter’s shop, the shaky seams
met with glue and screws,
And I came home to find the cabinets
hanging again, straight and true

That day, and the days following, I had no
desire to put everything back.
Then, I couldn’t quite remember
how it had been. I suspected the cabinets
had been mounted upside down.

Eventually I tucked it all back in.
The new arrangement was different,
but I had to admit, it was good,
and maybe, even better, than before.

My space is now safe and strong and stable.
Nothing angles out at me, threatening
to hurl a single dish or all of them at once.

But now, every time I look into the kitchen,
I still see those cabinets leaning.
I’m still running my hands along the seams
between the cabinet and the wall.

I’m not sure how long before
my eyes believe what my head knows;
how long before I stop waiting for
it all to come crashing down.

And now you’re home too, this old shape of you
that’s had a fair amount of screw and glue
to stand
you
up
straight.

I’ve gotten used to my peaceful cairns,
and I’m not sure how to move about you anymore.
I’m sorry to say, that most days,
I don’t even want to try.

What my head knows and
my heart believes are two different things.
When I look at you,
you’re still swaying.

-Chali Davis