He tore out the engine

of our 1983 Commodore,

patched it up

with his own mind's making

to make it run on water.

A few explosions later

he turned water to wine,

at least,

for a few seconds.

Five years pass and dust cakes

the welding and piles of screws.

The bomb is a hoarder's paradise

now used as storage for

all the other non sequential

data that father discovers.

There's the time

when he discovered the op shop,

five dollars fifty five;

a magic number for

out of date skis.

Ten pairs later we ski,

old man style and we

fall, twist, crash

and laugh.

There's the time

we found a crate of geese

on a gravel road, nestled

between fields of corn,

fallen off route to the abattoir.

We open the box and

fling it free

at the lake furthest

from the antler-trimmed pub.

There's the time,

only I saw,

where he kicked a log

and sent a Pentecostal fire

to crash and crackle

at the rotating

pig's carcass.

His lip's twitched

behind his glass of

carrot juice,

a celery smirk

at my charcoal flesh.

[I am a HSC student, and this is one of the poems part of my Major Work for English Extension II. I'm doing a series of poems based on my cultural heritage of Croatia. Would greatly appreciate feedback. Thanks.]