WEBVTT

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My father died four
years ago this week.

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About that death: "These days".

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"The vessel he has
carried for so long

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is spilt. His eyes
have run out of light

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and are looking beyond
us to the far distances,

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the simplicities.

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My own eyes, star.

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His great priest's
face taking on a caste,

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becoming immemorial,
a man becoming

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something else, a ruined
shell, a wasted king

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amongst the debris, a mask.

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Slow, shutting
down of the machine

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till it felt like hours
between each breath, trolled,

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heaved up, each from
a greater depth.

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We listen to his
heartbeats muffled

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drum until the drumming stops.

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A poor likeness, pen
and ink, not him at all.

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We are more nervous, sketched
at the deathbed in a trompe

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l'oeil of personal effects.

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His toilet bag and shoes,
his watch, his cigarettes,

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and the drawn skull of
my father, dispersed.

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Waking up the next morning into
a wet brightness and hugeness

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of day, the miniature
figure is going

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to work, and the world
around them carrying on.

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I can hardly walk.

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I am so frightened.

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These days are scored
through one by one.

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The ward plan wiped
clean for another name.

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Another man lies in
bed behind the glass.

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My mother struggles
with the singular.

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We all must learn to use
another tense, the past."

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