Nimruz De Castro
My sister calls me
in the middle of polishing silverware
at my part-time job
to say our father died.
I say ‘Okay’.
She says ‘That’s all’, and hangs up.
I put my phone down and pick up the rag,
that was in my hands.
The restaurant’s clients need cutlery
and it is lunchtime.
Tomato soups need to be sipped.
Steaks need to be sliced.
There is no time for me to listen
if my heart breaks
or if melancholic music plays
in my head like in those Mexican telenovelas
my father never watched.
‘Too dramatic,’ he may or may not have said.
My memories of my father are scant,
almost non-existent, like the stain
on the cutlery I polish.
‘I like having you in the dishwashing station.
You clean spoons like you’ll use them yourself,’
my manager said when I complained
how stainless steel
fresh out of the polishing machine
burns off my fingerprints.
Maybe if I complained to my father
he would have known I didn’t like cleaning his guns,
or making his badge shine
as if it was the only police badge God ever made.
He would have known why
I ran 10,467 kilometres away.
I slide a fork and a knife inside a paper sleeve,
a napkin, their shared bed,
and ask for a cigarette break
praying that the giggles of tourists
as they take pictures of the gay bar
across the street
will be loud enough
to drown the wailing
my father taught me
to never let fly
out
of
my
throat.