In Mandarin, 夸 means “compliment,” 父 means “fatherhood,” and 亲 means “to kiss.”
Combined, they take on new meaning. 夸父 means titan — both a race of mythic beings and a proper name for the sun-chasing giant in the ShanHai Classics. 父亲 means father — both all fathers, and my Father.
I.
In a car ride to New Hampshire, 父亲
recited that story again. 夸父 — the Titan
dying of thirst
in his perpetual pursuit
of the sun. He drank the river Wei,
then the river Huang, until the heat’s
亲 of death bled him dry.
I can recite his legend by now.
But still I listened, 父亲’s husky voice
dampened by Jay Chou and Opera.
夸父 is the paragon, he chuckled,
warming to his usual 夸 of the myths—
夸 of when I show the 夸父 spirit.
Yes,
父亲 also lived the legend. His move from
Anhui to Shanghai, books in hand, over
the river Chang, thirsty for
a rising tide, his own
exuberant sun.
In the passenger seat, I stared
through tinted windows
at the frail New England rays.
An octave jump in the Opera song—
the sun faded behind rows
of blurred pines. Mist rose on the Interstate,
the cold, white thirst of night.
II.
I think of 父亲’s 亲,
kisses that stopped
when his itchy stubble chaffed my
masculinity.
Other times it's 亲爱的,[1]
the endearment that disappeared
from texts. Even calls, enduring
as they were, at times
thinned into the mist.
My 夸父 workload,
父亲’s work,
gushing waves slicing
worlds apart.
Only 父, that single, solid,
syllabic word, remained
untouched and unbothered,
silently unthinable.
III.
Between the brick-red dorm
and our rented Toyota,
父亲 and I hugged,
his long coat dragging
shadows from the ground.
When I retreated to the warmth
of the entryway, 父亲
was gone. In his place,
a mass of white energy
overwhelmed the car windows,
bursting with iridescent heat.
One corner of the window glass,
an overcast figure was
outlined by the light.
Encased,
deformed,
incessant.
A blazing giant //
in stubborn chase.
