billy flash & other names i call my father

as far as i know i own
my father's only remaining band
t-shirt-- 
i stole it before i left for
college from the attic--
the cardboard box was 
nestled between a folded
stack of Genuardi's supermarket 
aprons & my grandfather's
ashes we never bothered 
to bury--
my family are people
who don't unpack themselves 
much-- we pile the spaces under our
bed-- toss old shoes 
to the back of the closet.
when i visit home i always
pick up my first pair of 
Chuck Taylors & put them up
against my shoes to see
how small my feet used to be--
completing the ritual i 
put them back-- cover
with the curtain of a prom
dress & my white confirmation
robe--
i wear my father's band t-shirt
with purpose-- it's a kind
of portal--
in the photograph printed 
on the front 
my father crouches down--
hands on his knees--
his hair is thick & curly--
he's a cartoon in black and 
white outlines--
my uncle wears sunglasses
gazing off into the distance--
cool, calm, & sleek--
they're probably maybe age now
& i can't imagine what
my young father might have
been thinking when
the photograph was
taken-- so what i do is
i lay the shift on the floor--
take two steps down into it
look at my own body turned into
a black & white outline--
i read their band name 
BILLY FLASH & THE RAINCOATS
inscribed relentlessly
above our heads--
a sort of halo or a homily
to a past boy
in Chuck Taylors &
Rickenbacker slung over
his shoulder--
we don't say anything to each other--
i let him pose while
i walk off
into the far corners of
the t-shirt-- i walk out
through the arm
hole & emerge back into my bed room
still a black & white outline
of a daughter--
i pose for myself in the mirror--
peel the band name from the
t-shirt to inscribe it above
my head like a proverb--
i lace up black Chuck Taylors--
i write my poetry 
on the inside of the sleeves.