911

every time i try to all the emergency machine
it is my father on the other side. the first 911
was just a hole dug into the earth & screamed into.
sometimes i take a shovel to the soil 
& look for calls for help. my father is not good
in emergencies. he turns into an angry man.
once, he turned me into broom bristles 
& swept the house with my face. i became
a disciple of the cob webs. a caretaker of dust.
that is what it means to be a poet. someone has
to tell the truth about how we came apart.
i sometimes wish i was a different kind
of cartographer. not one who wrote about 
hunger but one who wrote about wholeness.
about finding the foot you've been missing
& sewing it back on with beading thread. my father
drives a two-wheeled car. carries a gun without bullets.
i ask him on the phone, "what are you going 
to do?" masculinity is about hands & femininity 
is also, kind of, about hands. i tell him,
"can you put someone else one the phone."
he replies, "it is only me." unsealing the chimneys.
teaching the house how to breathe again.
the air fills with gnats. if he was going to pick up
i wish he would do something. i wish he would
take off his face finally & weep. we could
harvest his tears. turn them into glass. 
a panacea. the reminder that in the terror hours
we are all nothing more than lovely water. 
he does not have a plan. i tell him what to do,
"get into your car & just sing to me."