Sounds that twisted around the room like smoke, bludgeoning, blossoming, where I did not want to find them, but I find them over and over. Father, bless your hair. Bless your hammer and your no-song whistle, your voice, your strange language--embarrassing to me once. Too lyrical, too vulgar. But father, bless your hair: sculptural, short, black lamb's wool, steel wool like your voice--gravel underfoot when I'd walk home from school. Bless your voice, the gravel underfoot, your hammer, your strange language twisting like smoke, biting like a snake the head of which I wanted to stroke or crush with my heel. And your whistle father, and when you'd stop whistling, suddenly, in the middle of your work, as if something had cut away the part of you that wanted to sing.
Yerra SugarmanSounds that twisted around the room like smoke, bludgeoning, blossoming, where I did not want to find them, but I find them over and over. Father, bless your hair. Bless your hammer and your no-song whistle, your voice, your strange language–embarrassing to me once. Too lyrical, too vulgar. But father, bless your hair: sculptural, short, black lamb’s wool, steel wool like your voice–gravel underfoot when I’d walk home from school. Bless your voice, the gravel underfoot, your hammer, your strange language twisting like smoke, biting like a snake the head of which I wanted to stroke or crush with my heel. And your whistle father, and when you’d stop whistling, suddenly, in the middle of your work, as if something had cut away the part of you that wanted to sing.
Yerra Sugarman