My Soldier Father's Body Brush

By Yutka
- 54 reads
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.
- Log in to post comments


