Memorial Day, 1978

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[Editor’s Note: For the designed poem, see the PDF below]

Morning 

My father’s body sounds, 
those noises keeping him alive, 
I hold dear and dumb, my own: 
his son’s heart pounds 
as if doing will always thrive 
and time calling names alone 
will keep the pat breath 
easing in and surely out 
and there’s the rub, saying it. 
He woke early; death 
stirred beside him without 
a word, neither betraying it: 
the old fear of ceasing. 
He’s not afraid, just knows, 
as I do, the sum of things; 
yet I measure the leasing 

of my life as it goes 
by me in my father’s coughings, 
conversations of the body 
with itself, letting the past 
breathe again soft against 
itself in the throat, to die 
as if by practicing the last 
breath in solace of the breast 
he could give it back 
to himself, start over new, 
pretending it happens that way, 
like play-acting Jack and 
the beanstalk, climbing to 
heaven hand over hand, 
breathing yesterday today. 

Afternoon 

We walked among the graves 
looking for the names 
matching our own last name 
to those long out of sight, 
playing the kind of games 
we play out to the end, apparently. \
He walked straight and tall, my father, 
looking for his mother 
like a boy who had stayed out too long 
wanting permission to come home. 
I’ll never forget it; I was proud. 
He had forgotten where the marker was. 
He asked a young family for directions. \
They knew the answer no more 
than he did but looked for him. 
A child found it, his mother’s name, 
came running, “Sir! Sir!” 
They showed him. They were proud 
they had helped him. I stood

watching over him protectively 
as he read the names: his mother,
his sister, his brother. Another, 
the name of the man his other 
sister, still alive, drove to suicide;
an early grave. A secret. 
We spoke of it; it still puzzled him.
My father’s buried elsewhere, he said.
We moved on, not speaking now.
Later, another graveyard: Mother.
My mother. His wife. Still a girl 
in his eyes, fresh as flowers. 
One stone: two names. 
Hers, completed with dates. 
His, an open interval 
to be dated later. Who knows 
the numbers to be? Not I. Not he. 

Evening 

His head bends forward 
as into the mirror of his life, 
seeing all that went before 
infinitely future tense. 
He sleeps softly in front of the TV.
Softly snores, occasionally. 
We had a big day today. 
I cut his hair quietly 
this morning, preparing the day, 
neatly clipped, a best suit, 
clean shirt, new garments. 
I look into his face 
as I would my own 
years hence, I being lucky. 
Narcissus knew himself 
as another, a stranger.

I wonder if he will outlast me,
even now, at eighty-four, 
forty years my senior. 
I wish I could collect 
myself, my thoughts . . . 
He wakes, he smiles. I love him.
Why were we made to feel 
what we cannot understand? 

Night 

Silence now, 
as if he’s gone: 
He sleeps in the bedroom 
he and Mother shared, 
wraps in rough blankets, 
gets cold easily, 
remembers nothing 
of now, knows the world 
as it was then, intimately, 
as he knew her. 
Sleeps soundly. 
I sit in front of 
late night TV, waiting for 
something to happen, soon, story
interrupted at intervals 
for messages. 
I doze. I wake up. 
Woke myself breathing 
too hard. I am older. 
I fell asleep. 

TV proceeded without me. 
I wait for messages. 
I am alive. 
The TV smiles.