Tonight I'm to occupy a single breath:
to let it slowly out as an open kettle might
release its steam, left long on the stove.
Eventually all substance turns to vapor

& accumulates in the air, then falls
again as a globe under its own weight.
Bodies must be near each other, it seems,
even when the result is simple collapse.

Only the globe is never falling-
it's the thing that imitates the globe
falls into it, as I now imitate, & fail,

the voice of my father, who sits breathing
with his dog at the mouth of the river.
My breath, too, rises & falls. Listen.


About this poem
"This poem is a meditation on gravity and regeneration. My dad is a Buddhist and an activist who was extradited from South Africa in the '70s for protesting against apartheid and now organizes to confront climate change; his dog is long dead. I measure my work against his and find it lacking."
-Martin Rock

About Martin Rock
Martin Rock is the author of "Residuum" (Cleveland State University Poetry Center, 2015). He is a Ph.D. candidate in creative writing and literature at the University of Houston.

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The Academy of American Poets is a nonprofit, mission-driven organization, whose aim is to make poetry available to a wider audience. Email The Academy at poem-a-day[at]poets.org.


(c) 2016 Martin Rock. Originally published in Poem-a-Day, www.poets.org. Distributed by King Features Syndicate