My Soldier Father's Body Brush

Mind’s secret tool. Sole that has ceased to work

for decades now, but in the past

received impressions of dark war paths, 

overcast skies 

of Russian winters -

when out wandering in the hand of my soldier father -

so young still - it learns to brush his cold skin,

revives frostbitten arms and legs

on ever new sights, always on the move, never 

to arrive in this vastness of things…

yet a durable tool for personal health

always anew in his hands, yet unchanged 

                  (stiff-bristled body brushes are essential for cleaning

in field conditions when water for bathing is scarce)

in his hands, again and again, it helps

remove dirt, sweat and dead skin,

transforms his being into ongoing landscapes,

for me, his daughter he never knew. 

It travels with him and arrives with him

appears into my hands now. 

Made of pale natural wood, 

with his name engraved on it, 

though faded, but I wrote it again 

in black ink,

easy to grip, with hard enough bristles

to redden my arms and my legs, brushing me

with his thoughts, (he only saw me once, as a new-born) 

I feel him wandering, far, away, on a small island in the Dnieper,

in his last dawn -  now filling me with his constant arrival.