After my father left, I found him
five days later, working
with cables. As if nothing had changed,
squeezing cool pliers, a handful of tape
to stick himself together
in rags of summer blue.
I crouched there, hunched like a ragdoll
forgotten, spying and ashamed.
As he tugged and grasped
I watched him twine the slim asps
round his knuckles, clip colours, and I saw
for one moment only, his frown
through the weepy steam of his tea
rainbows spring from my father’s fingers,
a split-second sparkle, I’m sorry.