My father died four years ago this week.
About that death: "These days".
"The vessel he has carried for so long
is spilt. His eyes have run out of light
and are looking beyond us to the far distances,
the simplicities.
My own eyes, star.
His great priest's face taking on a caste,
becoming immemorial, a man becoming
something else, a ruined shell, a wasted king
amongst the debris, a mask.
Slow, shutting down of the machine
till it felt like hours between each breath, trolled,
heaved up, each from a greater depth.
We listen to his heartbeats muffled
drum until the drumming stops.
A poor likeness, pen and ink, not him at all.
We are more nervous, sketched at the deathbed in a trompe
l'oeil of personal effects.
His toilet bag and shoes, his watch, his cigarettes,
and the drawn skull of my father, dispersed.
Waking up the next morning into a wet brightness and hugeness
of day, the miniature figure is going
to work, and the world around them carrying on.
I can hardly walk.
I am so frightened.
These days are scored through one by one.
The ward plan wiped clean for another name.
Another man lies in bed behind the glass.
My mother struggles with the singular.
We all must learn to use another tense, the past."