Last weekend I found what seems to be a poem in the nightstand in the duplex my father stopped sleeping in a while back. Blue ink in Spanish cursive on both brown yellow sides the blue lines faded. I don't know if he wrote it and I don't really understand it as I transcribe afraid I need to get it down digitally before it explodes or something. There are sections 10, 20, 30, 40, 50, 60 and I don't know if these refer to age or if he was just stylin'. There's a note at the bottom instructing me to turn the page. I want to love it because I want writing from my father But my father was so dry and this is about a river in Cuba. So I worry my mother wrote this and I am twisted because I don't want to love anything from my mother. So I type digging out untangling his script looking words up to see if they match what I believe to be the sentiment from this distant hum of a thing scritching at the base of my brain finding that he used aurora enchantress and wrote of delivering hallelujahs to a woman at the mouth of a river or it's a metaphor for drinking from her chalice. I don't believe in gods but damn it I want to believe my father was a poet like me though he never gave off the lilt of lyricism aside from the way he sang Hola Soledad recently: a lament. When I get to the part about bitter years imprisoned I know it has to be him. I sob and remember his simple response when asking for a reason: BECAUSE SOMEBODY JUST WANTED TO. It ends with wondering about the woman and children who would never bear his eyes, hair, or name and a ghost who escapes a well with something that was never his. I know this stupid lucky ghost. He wanted his father's words and got a poem. I know this fucker well.