My father was a sailor
radio signal's feverish tap at fourteen

to my brother, an empty field
nothing but longing and wind
a gap that never left him

to me, brown eyes
brass rims and questions
quietude demanding inquiry
Jung text heavy in my adolescent lap
read me a page or two, will ya

was hockey hands, slap stick Friday night
a fever of men, caught from his father
furrowed brow and mustached
voice that would grab me
set my heart pounding

my field was full of stories
his mother, a child and a railway track
her Beretta in the glove box
widowed with four children

my childhood filled with northern sounds
like Nehemiah and Chilkotin
the cabin where he read
mum burned bread
put a bun in the oven

the piece of me
I was meaning to show him
grew wild, feverish
and ran away

he was wool sweaters 
and brown bomber jacket
striped t-shirt and chicken legs
a jade wedding band lost in a fire
tobacco smoke and aftershave on a warm cheek

after the divorce he strung lights on the yucca
A&W Root Bears as Christmas ornaments
his angry gait a quickening flamenco step
behind my heartbeat

ZOË DAGNEAULT is a poet completing her Masters of Fine Arts at the University of British Columbia. Her work has been published in Room Magazine, Sky Island Journal, and The Maynard, among other publications. She lives with her daughter on territories of the xʷməθkʷəy̓əm, Sḵwx̱wú7mesh and səl̓ilwətaɁɬ.