Beaten Side

I’m sure somewhere Luke or Paul practiced devotion through innings.
Dad returned us to His sunburned home to resurrect His youth,
a rematch against my uncles upon their sacred field.

Over roasted pork pulled onto paper plates,
Dad’s former neighbours, teachers, colleagues
plucked my cheekbones from His.
angled my jaw for a flicker of likeness
But I am my mother’s mirror.
and like her, never found divinity behind pickets.

But if I joined the boys,
where my cousin – the batsman, guarded my aunties bins.
If I played upon their gravel pitch
former neighbours, teachers, colleagues,
all. would praise Dad’s aim through me.

Sometimes what we inherit lays dormant,
lineage lurks in the mundane and unassuming.

Dads tight grip, and accompanying beer bottles hiss
Reminds me, grandpa shaped His hands.
like grandpa, Dad can catch anything alive and moving
like grandpa, Dad is unafraid of crimson
like grandpa, Dad was taught to hold it like you mean it.

I worry. if those same hands held my mum in her wedding dress.
whose hands shaped mine
where within me they reside
retired habits await trumpets to wake.
and I’m left, done in.