Leslie St. John

Gift

A brass compass hangs on a black ribbon
above my bed, where I dream of Cecil
hiking through Colorado in 1918, alone

under topless bone-colored Aspens,
something the size of a silver dollar
telling him which way to go. Why

had he given the compass to his son?
Or was it one of those personal belongings
dropped into an envelope? Had dad used it

to scout elk in Montana or survey land
for a new home in the Ozark mountains?
Batteries, he was searching for them

when he found the compass in pottery
on the fireplace mantel: small coins, matches,
turkey calls, compass—edges oxidized,

surface rubbed to a thumb-dented, mat finish.
This is the first time I’ve seen him in a year.
I lay my head down in California and he’s out

as soon as the snow breaks searching for tracks—
turkey, deer, fox. Perhaps it wasn’t so long ago
that we finger-danced ballets to classical radio.

Or, so many revolutions ago I get dizzy:
cobwebs in the corners of his pay-by-the-week
furnished apartment, photo of him in the yard

in a tuxedo holding a flute of Champaign,
black convertible Porsche behind him,
new apartment with straw-colored carpet

and urns near the fireplace—a woman’s touch.
The day I walked across a stage and accepted
a diploma, he wasn’t there. The day I cut my

thighs, a puddle on the kitchen floor,
he sat in a dark room ringing his hands,
not picking up the phone to say, “daughter.”

In the kitchen he held the compass palm up,
a waiter serving soup, pointing at the nervous
needle: “It always goes north.” We leaned

toward dark windows as if pressing against
the past, or maybe we were testing the future,
hoping a gift could help us find our way.