Our fathers, they kidnap us
to other planets. Every dad has his own –
mine, dandelion streets and derelict houses.
We’re headed down 96 West but stop
at a party: Molotovs, needles, missing teeth,
a David Lynch movie, I lose him somewhere
in the noise. I step over bodies, searching,
tongue covered in soot. I yell out puff of smoke.
Perched out front in a lawn chair, he’s drinking
Judith from the lens of an SLR. Suddenly,
I’m in the Cosmosphere photo he’d swear
was around here somewhere, trapped
in a wide bubble slid around me by a magician.
Standing impressively still, I recall my father’s
gaze – delight, perhaps, love? We counted
holes in the ceiling, traded spoons for ice cream
dipped in liquid nitrogen, grazed Apollo 13
from the barricade. In the mirror, I see him
looking back through the soap sheen, we are
flying in orange suits, riding spheres of metal.
Must I give up the moon?
Lara Hamidi-Ismert is a mathematician living in Prescott, Arizona. Her poetry appears in Caustic Frolic, Feral: A Journal of Poetry and Art, Tether’s End Magazine, and others. She has also published articles in Communications in Mathematical Physics and New York Journal of Math. When she’s not mathing, she likes to write, act, and hike with her husband.