Shared skin

Driving, you look at your arms,
the skin rough and mottled,
white spots pock the tan of days
spent outside wandering.
There are scars. Too many of them
to remember their cause
or whether their story is one of stupidity
or bravery.
Veins rise over old muscles,
wiry. stringy and strong.

They are your father’s arms.
You remember his at this age,
working on motors, working on relics
in need of restoration.
You remember them raised in anger,
fists clinched,
alcohol and madness
belying a teacher’s soul.

Unlike his,
your arms are always in motion,
expressive appendages
without which you could not talk.
It is asa if you are wearing a costume,
his skin over a soul
that was always a mystery to him,

Neither of us saints,
both sinners
from different worlds
with different Gods
we lived in a state of undeclaired war,
and too often, undeclaired love
confortable at last  that we were two souls
sharing skin bearing scars
neither of us could remember.

About this poem

So much truth in this one it almost didn’t make the cut. My father and I often had a strained relationship. At times I felt he hated me. At times I felt he loved me. In time, we came to a place of grace with each other. An uneasy grace, but grace.

Tom