For Brother de Mik

Cupped in your papery palm the rose 
was like a wound, flowering. 
Your wife nodded when we brought it. 
Yes, Papa, yes is pretty. Then 
she put it in a bowl to float 
and wilt on water. 

The light turned ruddy on your faces 
as we sat, the evening passing. 
You told me how it was to be 
a lithographer: Grease and water 
not so friendly with each other, 
but I lace them up side to side 
on the stone, together they make 
my printings nice. When I left 
the room was blue. 

Voice still resonant as rosewood, 
after the sickness came you told 
me about Holland and the Saints 
and marrying beautiful Marjorie. She 
brought us lebkuchen with sticky 
cherries on a slate-colored plate. 
When you ate a small piece she said, 
See you can eat. Papa can eat. 
She made you hold the gray plate 
on your knee. 

Christmas Eve, the fire cast orange 
shadows on the alcoved walls. I 
brought a holly wreath. For the first 
time you did not rise when I came 
into the room. Oh, not so well, 
you answered me. I heard you breathe. 
But that’s the way of things. The Lord 
has always been good. We watched 
the soundless television, a bluish 
flickering screen. 

Today the sprays of roses, mums, 
carnations — red, orange, and yellow — 
banked the upturned, silver shining 
earth where you lay. / trust my Jesus, 
you once told me. I’m just a man. 
And cupped inside this darker day 
I grieve, the claret mystery 
of the cross, beside me here, 
in hiding.