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paper \u2022 152 pages \u2022 16.95
ISBN-13: 978-1-945588-51-8<\/p>\n
Add to Cart<\/a><\/p>\n [\/column] Seize<\/em>, Brian Komei Dempster\u2019s follow-up to Topaz<\/em>, spares no one the highs and lows of fatherhood. The speaker struggles to care for his young and ailing child\u2014a child whose many medical problems create an obstacle course of moral and emotional dilemmas. How does a father come to terms with the large and unknowable mysteries of a child who cannot communicate in a “normative” way? How does a parent\u2014especially one who is dependent on language\u2014guide a child without the use of speech? And how does one become the parent of another when their own uncertainties, their own wounds\u2014intergenerationally from war, from strained race relations, from constantly being denied a place to belong\u2014are still healing?<\/p>\n Bird Cries<\/strong><\/p>\n I miss exits, veer with earplugs, strain my neck is all right. At home I wear headphones bird cage. Shut up<\/em> I yell when he breaks hard. Hold him by the shoulders. Be quiet.<\/em> A flock little. I can\u2019t shut him down on him. I keep him my dad says. If my boy is quiet, his friends I’m hitting him. I strain to work. A blackbird can be seen about him. When I come with coos Ay ai . . . Nice voice buddy in his wheelchair. Poor little guy she believes <\/p>\n
[column col=”3\/4″]<\/p>\nSeize<\/em><\/h1>\n
Brian Komei Dempster<\/h2>\n
Winner of the Julie Suk Award in Poetry<\/a><\/h5>\n
Gold Award in Poetry from Northern California Publishers & Authors<\/a><\/h5>\n
Silver Winner of a Human Relations Indie Book Award<\/a><\/h5>\n
Finalist for the Eric Hoffer Book Award in Poetry<\/a><\/h5>\n
Finalist for the National Indie Excellence Award in Poetry<\/a><\/h5>\n
Reviewed in Southern Humanities Review<\/a><\/b><\/em><\/h5>\n
Reviewed in M\u0101noa<\/a><\/b><\/em><\/h5>\n
Featured twice by RHINO<\/em>: in a graphic review<\/a> and an editorial review<\/a><\/h5> \n
through the world
dangerous. Drive <\/p>\n
to check if my little boy <\/p>\n
to block out
his squawks. In my own <\/p>\n
through. Squeeze his cheeks<\/p>\n
of seizures. His fingers claw
into my wrist. He says so<\/p>\n
out. His good arm flaps. Shadows swoop <\/p>\n
from falling, keep him
from flying. Some sounds are torture<\/em> <\/p>\n
will like him. When he screams, neighbors could think<\/p>\n
to hear the radio, cry
when I drive<\/p>\n
thirteen ways. I fly to retreats to write <\/p>\n
back, he is still caged. I shampoo
his hazel hair, and he soothes me <\/p>\n
<\/em> I tell him. He nests quiet<\/p>\n
<\/em> my mother reminds, so much to say
<\/em>and no words<\/em>. His mind a deep sky <\/p>\n
he will rise into. <\/p>\n