Alicia Cole

Narrated postcards of America; these,
my father’s milk. And also his ilk.
Walking with him is easier, physical
movement quieting our mouths,
our over-abundance of arguments.
I do not always understand him,
but there, again, the aerial swaths
of America. Lands terraced thick
with houses. He, terraced thick
with walls I can´t quite crack;
but, then, who wants to crack
their father anyway, unless there´s
bitter need? There he is, just
drinking milk. And I´m enjoying
his quiet company. Wondering
where all the channels of water
in this country flow to, and to whose
homes, where other daughters
and fathers silently, and loudly,
rage together in the glow of circuits
churning out images that narrate.