From a Family Album—In Memory
My old finger tips scoop out nothing now.
The ivory soap once stirred to a lather
in this wooden bowl melted away long
ago. Smooth, I stroke it with my finger,
the natural grain in my dead father’s
old shaving bowl. Yardley’s, his one perfume,
rubbed hard into his stubble, softer,
with the bristles of his brush stirred to foam;
Father Christmas’ beard! His Gillette razor
pulled through the lather, mowed the stubble,
whisked it to a soup of hair shavings’ suds.
I read Armitage on the white basin.
It then became a bowl for odds and ends,
once the creamy, waxy soap had vanished.
He had scraped away the ivory remnants
with his sharp penknife. It was ready now
to stand on the wooden-slatted shelves
of his cedar press, with a tie pin, cuff-
links, rowing medals, where stacked Aertex shirts,
khaki pants, hankies lay in khus-khus grass.
It’s an empty urn now, this clean soft wood,
its roundness worked by a lathe on this plinth,
circled with this groove, covered with this lid.
It clicks and echoes as I let it drop.
I let it drop again. I pick it up.
I play with it on my desk, filling it
with stubs of pencils, erasers, paperclips
my gold ring. I shake and throw my odds
and ends as dice. What chance have I left
to resurrect him? The bowl to my face,
I inhale the fragrance of his good night
kiss, and my fear of bristles in stubble.
Just here, a murmur. What does it now say?
Listen: his rough cheek rubbed on my boy’s
soft cheek. “Good night, son.” I tried to avoid
him, running off to bed, with, “Good night, dad.”