The Perseids

Nerved sparks, the Perseids 
tonight, wincing out over Loafer 

Father, you taught me to name
these — each streak of fire 
signifying entrance into what —
An “atmosphere”? A “world 
of light”? Brilliant, persistent 
wrecks. They all fall . . . 

Father, I’ve fallen six years 
and where were you? —”Steady,”
you said when the rock slipped
at the trail, “Steady.” 

You were always steady, dying
the way you did, cell 
by cell. Until your cravings 
turned wild, wanting 
the corners of the room back 
in kilter, the light “brighter, 
brighter.” Until 
you wanted nothing. 

Father. Anything 
was yours and you wanted
nothing. One more time
you could have asked 

for coolness and we’d have
bathed you, motioned 
and we’d have given you light.
One more time you could have
wakened from your burning
and we’d have held you, told you,
Here is where 
you are, Father. Here 
with us. Here. Here.