We walked down this dusty canyon,
where the rains have worn gashes
in the gray banks like the creases
that run from your cheek bones
to your jaw line, Dad.

Once you rowed us on a lake,
squinting in reflected light,
the muscles of your chest and arms
fluid, your laughter again
like cold water in my face.
Then, only a boy, I wanted
arms like yours. I even wanted
a crease in my cheek.
But when I leaned towards you,
you shouted, “Sit down!
What are you trying to do?”
and I sat hunched in the stern
wanting to fling myself
at the bright waves
where my face shimmered.

Tired now, we sit slumping
against a gritty boulder.
We don’t talk.
I turn to look at you.
I see the gray strands crossing
the mottled skin of your head,
your skull protruding around the temples,
your dry and wrinkled lips.

You squint back at me, angry.
“What are you staring at?”
Shaken, I look back on the trail
we followed here.
You doze against a rock,
the moraine of your cheek
splashed with shadow
would be cold.
At the cry of a dry-throated wren,
chapped, roughened,
I slip away.

Will Hemmer is a retired college math teacher. After retirement, he was a play producer in Los Angeles. He produced seven plays and two concerts (he’s also a pretty good singer), then the money ran out. Hemmer studied creative writing with Glover Davis at San Diego State. He also studied poetry writing at UCLA. His mentors have said that he is a metaphysical poet. He’ll let you make up your own mind about that. Will was born on April 26th in Zanesville, Ohio.