MIGRATION

in the shadow of poughkeepsie

you take the label off a bud light

shape and reshape it—

here is a butterfly, wax-winged

here is the shape of the stars

as they alight, one by one

hang upside down and dream

and here is my father

bent origami-soft, his spine

endless in the dark as i peer out of

my bedroom window

i smell the smell of him, impatience

that liquor-shattered furious

look in his eyes, his hands shaping

and reshaping my body.