Father

his posture leaning against a rail,
right ankle crossed
over my left

like shoe being tied,
an unconscious half-curtsy.

Or, interrupted,
taking my glasses off
to talk, then putting them
back on to read,

talking and reading
back and forth

like I was between
conflicting information.

Climbing a flight of stairs,
I can hear
our steps together,

his creak and click
in mine.

Coming across a chair left
out for someone
in the kitchen or study,

a chair that someone
forgot to tuck back in,

I sit. Elbows on the table like
I never learned better,

or watched.

The Second Sunday

So the Lord God banished him from the Garden of Eden—Genesis 3:23

After the seventh day caesura rest,
when Your tracks were fresh and easy to follow,
Your intention firmly rooted

—what else?

The sun stood by its initial glow,

burning like its own idea. In eagles and plankton,
predator and prey, You soared and drifted,
gaining nourishment and being eaten.
Life itself, a part of You, insisted

on by life itself. Like a word repeated
in its definition. Everywhere Your
best ideas. Everything already!
—Including death: animal skins. Cover for

corrupted bodies, disabused of sin
—too late:
       insight, outside the garden.

 

Toby’s work has appeared in The Cincinnati Review, Christianity and Literature, Anglican Theological Review, Santa Clara Review, and others.