being disharmonious with the whisper of death, my father sentiently orchestrates his final moments.
the cancer enfolds, unbending; inverting throughout him like a small womb unfolding the fabric of his universe. his torso ebbs with these insatiable flowers. he is born again into death knowing love, dreaming his journey into being. his children shedding symphonies of his laughter are woven into silence; as he dies a fully spread bouquet—beautiful in the face of surreptitious sabotage. it must be cumbersome for him. to grow backwardly. still, though—outwardly, he hefts it peacefully. dying a mountain— symphonic—and in bloom.