My father has forgotten me
in the excitement of dying.
Like a child who will not eat,
he takes no notice of anything.

I sit on the edge of his bed
while the living circle us
like so many tree stumps.

Once, for the smallest
fraction of an instant, I thought
he was alive in the present again;
then he looked at me
as a blind man stares
straight into the sun, since
whatever it could do to him
is done already.

Then his flushed face
turned away from the contract.

I’m going to live without you
as I learned once
to live without my mother.
You think I don’t remember that?
I’ve spent my whole life trying to remember.

Now, after so much solitude,
death doesn’t frighten me,
not yours, not mine either.
And those words, the last time,
have no power over me. I know
intense love always leads to mourning.

For once, your body doesn’t frighten me.
From time to time, I run my hand over your face
lightly, like a dustcloth.
What can shock me now? I feel
no coldness that can’t be explained.
Against your cheek, my hand is warm
and full of tenderness.

Lord, you may not recognize me
speaking for someone else.
I have a son. He is
so little, so ignorant.
He likes to stand
at the screen door, calling
oggie, oggie, entering
language, and sometimes
a dog will stop and come up
the walk, perhaps
accidently. May he believe
this is not an accident?
At the screen
welcoming each beast
in love’s name, Your emissary.

Neither Cowboy nor Max had ever seen
a crow’s egg because they believed
nothing so frightening and black could
come from something so fragile. It
was the only belief they shared. And
to Cowboy it was of little consequence.
But it frightened him. This sharing.
It was like a new saddle. On an old horse
he believed in. Because he had just bought both.

A gift
for the few
of the few

who
never had
to ask.