after Ross Gay

my father was most memorable as he stood in sun.

when summer grew loud & boastful, his chain held

onto the light the same as his skin & the thin border

between the metal & the brown would vanish, the chain

disappearing into his chest. as he was the father &

as i was the son, he gathered the bits of stone & metal

he had left & pressed them together with some quick

& torrid heat & pulled forth a smaller string 

of jewelry & he opened wide the new chain’s mouth

& let my head glide through so its lips were strung

along my shoulders & too often have i seen some niggas

put themselves inside the mouth of a divine & unseen animal.

there is nothing like a glow along your body to bring attention

to where you are most vulnerable, the ways the heart

or the neck may lead to your undoing & i think my father knew

this & blessed me nonetheless, an anointing in the silk folds

of a moonless night & on the night my father died

he covered his body in olive oil before drifting

into a far away & unforgiving sleep & they found him like this

in his bed with the oil lined along the curve of his stomach

like it would often line the fingers of a grandmother

before she said a prayer over a child’s warm forehead.

& so my father died slick & with favor, leaving the world

the same way i imagine he entered. my father, 

a glorious & polished thing. a fortune at heaven’s gates.

nothing hanging from his body but the thin thread of light

hanging from his neck. & look! —see? (the chain, the sunlight,

the heat’s long grin across our skin) it’s all related, friends.

sweat & touch & each one of our cravings. let me never forget

what i am even when i am not. body of tungsten, body of

summer. i’m a jewel, a perfect relic. my color is gold.