Crispin Rodrigues (b. 1988)
SELECTED POEMS
Hand-Me-Downs
I am wondering about the genetic codes
of what we leave behind: asthma that begins
as childhood irritant and blossoms into
a choked flower, palms that sweat so much
they collect water in pools, harbouring
a place for parasites to breed.Here is a photo of grandpa,
his face dour as dusk, the thickness of his eyebrows
the size of fish fingers, my dad's favourite.
Grandpa, with his dark palms and sweaty fingers,
teaches dad to hold a cricket bat with a surgeon's
dexterity. I inherited none of that.But the missal which rested on my head before
birth is etched in umbilical scralls. It is my grandpa's
keeper, like his bass thundering an imagined mass
Dad said if he were still alive, he'd shower
me with sweets and l'd be fatter than I am.Maybe diabetes is a hand-me-down too.
I look in the mirror and realise
that I can't grow a gruff beard like grandpa
no matter how long I don't shave.
My dad can't grow one either.
Maybe some things do change.
Like sugar cravings. Or doubting God.
by Crispin Rodrigues
from The Nomad Principle (2019)
