Father by Mary McGinnis

he was like a tree

tall and distant from me

clothed in roughness

like a juniper

with a cactus growing out of the center

I had to be careful how I touched him

when I touched him, he was stiff,

when we walked together,

he never said much

if he were with me now,

I would tell him to be

old, warm, ordinary, like a tree

I'd rub up against him

to scratch my back

I would talk to him as though talking to myself.

---

Mary McGinnis, blind since birth, has been writing and living in New Mexico since 1972 where she has connected with emptiness, desert, and mountains. Published in over 80 publications, she has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and was included in the “Telepoetry” series recordings. She has three full length collections: Listening for Cactus, October Again, See with Your Whole Body, and a chapbook, Breath of Willow.