My father demonstrated
his power under the YMCA
shower head, arms sharpened
into points. Water rushed over
fins, down fingertips
in jets.
At bedtime, he rocked me,
a ship on calm seas as we
sang the old songs.
When he grew archaic—hurricanes.
Kitchen chairs thrown, explosions
into kindling. Blue sky abused
into bruised maroon. I would leave
offerings at his altar: comic books,
drowned gulls, mugs of saltwater.
When danger passed, we swam
together, floated on ocean waves.
He always said: Son
when I am with you, nothing
will ever hurt, and all
I could do was believe.
Elia Hohauser-Thatcher
Elia Hohauser-Thatcher received his MFA from Chatham University. His work has recently appeared in The Offbeat, Lunch, Fearsome Critters, and The Detroit Socialist. Currently, he is pursuing his PhD in Rhetoric & Composition and teaching at Wayne State University in Detroit, Michigan. You can see more of his work at ehthatcher.wordpress.com.
