Every night we watched
the original Claude Rains film

made by Univeral Pictures about
the Invisible Man while they sat 

each in an arm and curled fingers 
around my pink spongy ears.

If there had been more
than two, I would have been

an octopus to accomodate
all of them.  

Babies make precious beanbags,
giggling across the bed,

tossed by the trusted, bandaged 
hands of this thundering  

rowdiness—the Invisible Man— 
a.k.a. Daddy, my trumpet blaring

“You’re crrrrrazy to know
who I am, aren’t you?!

Alright!
I’ll show you!”

The sharp downward pull 
of bandages from the face

always revealed a scowl— 
and then, promised souvenirs:

dark glasses, ski cap, 
and a hilarious chance

to tweak my nose
for the hundreth time.
         
          From 1933 to 1951, Universal Pictures
          saw the making of six films loosely based
          on H. G. Wells’ tale of invisibility.  
          They were about various persons who injected 
          a serum under the skin of their arm to become
          invisible—only there were dangerous side effects: 
          the crazed desire to take over the world, 
          to dominate, to do only as one pleased, 
          and as it happened in my case, to involve 
          one’s self in painful divorce proceedings.

Old movies were a favorite
in the bed, recliner, 

and on the couch—
a something sacred, 

even a little mad, a something
silly keeping them

away from their mother,
who was all schoolwork 

in the other room,
talking with Australians,

typing in chat boxes
and impressions on her phone.

          Evening shadows against round
          faces, and apparitions 
          took shape and walked in the room,
          for shirts, pants, and stockings 
          could leap and steal bicycles. 

In time, the children disappeared from view,
but they were felt like water flowing quickly 

over rocks turning up leaves,
the wild signs of their passing,

wearing down banks
to smoothness over time.

Today we see each other, 
through blue and pink ink cages 

of little notes, briskly executed artwork,  
phone calls ever so small,

growing fainter as the memory
of who they were dies,

until they are unrecognizable,
and I do not see a way back.

It is said that the Palauan fishermen
have a word, 

haptitsetse, about the area
where currents converge

ahead with choppier waters
downstream of their island.  

This tells them where to fish
for a good catch.

I will not stop letting down my nets
out here where it seems

all is rough going.