My father and I
lie down together.
He is dead.
We look up at the stars,
the steady sound
of the wind turning
the night like a ceiling fan.
This is our home.
I remember the work in him
like bitterness in persimmons
before the first frost,
and I imagine the way he feared
the pain, the ground turning
dark in the rain.
Now he gets up
and I dream he looks down
into my brown eyes
that may as well been his.
He weeps and says goodbye,
my son, I don't want to
go yet, but I can't wait
around to watch you die.
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 9:05 PM UTC
My father and I
lie down together.
He is dead.
We look up at the stars,
the steady sound
of the wind turning
the night like a ceiling fan.
This is our home.
I remember the work in him
like bitterness in persimmons
before the first frost,
and I imagine the way he feared
the pain, the ground turning
dark in the rain.
Now he gets up
and I dream he looks down
into my brown eyes
that may as well been his.
He weeps and says goodbye,
my son, I don't want to
go yet, but I can't wait
around to watch you die.
