Poems for my Father

De los Muertos


It is my job to remember.

I can do nothing else

for you now,

your grave too far

for flowers

or a picnic

on this Day

of the Dead.

An old man

in a red plaid cap

walks your crabbed walk

between two canes

stops and looks out

over the lake

to the horizon

his power flickering

in the gray wind.

One year ago

we walked

hoping against hope

in the slender light

of an October afternoon.

I miss you.

I missed you then.


Your Hands


Your hands

skin breaking down

when you could no longer

stand alone

at the sink

you teetered

balanced perilously

gripped the edge of the porcelain,

the frame of your walker

to scrub

as if for surgery

still

Your hands

strong once, archetypal

eased babies

into the world

spilled arpeggios

of “Love is All”

with flourish

past the bedtimes

of your children

wielded wooden tongue depressors

shook mercury down

in now extinct glass thermometers

snapping arcs through the air

learned to touch for knowledge

and for healing

separate from any cure

scribbled your inscrutable name

on prescription pads

and greeting cards

spanked sobbing evildoers

me among them

after the fashion

with open palm

though your heart

was seldom in it

grasped the nervous fingers

of my dates

their high school coolness

melting in your presence

though you were the one

with the awful jokes

stitched the lawn-mowered hand

of your surgeon partner

put shattered motorcyclists

back together,

my suitcase on the train

my parakeet

in the ground

Your hands

age-spots and

purple Plavix flowers

coffee-sloshing tremor

shaky signature

giving me power

of attorney

to act for you

a power that died

with you

like so many others

Your head

in your hands

your life

in ours

at the end

Dead, again

Still working on

getting you dead

for good

for once

and for all

Can’t graduate

from this life

‘til your homework’s

done

weeks waiting

on Louisiana death

certificates

The lawyer wants his cut

to act on the will

he billed you

to execute

My new fax machine

whirrs out a flurry

of papers

Communiques necessary

to the project

of finishing your life

You are quiet.

We speak and act for you

and for the ancient bride you left

behind a veil of fog

Today, two headstones

materialized

where there had been

none.

No one remembers

ordering the first

the day you died.

Was it you?

A last act

to get us started

on this tearless trail

where work stands in

for weeping?

When a week, a month

goes by

and my dead father

adds nothing to my to-do list

will you be gone, finally?

Will I be finished losing you?

Breath Vigil

Settled in

zafu on zabuton

tailbone and knees

my anchors

In

Out

Awake

Aware

Heady plume of incense

rising like a snake

from the glowing tip

“to invite the awakening mind”

rhythm of my

inhalation

exhalation

the breath

all

breathing

like my children

like my ancestors

like my father

as he labored

dying

watching his chest

and praying

though not to any god

he would have recognized

for his breath

to end

to go on forever

In zazen

I watch my breath

His breathing

and

no longer breathing

surface

We breathe

together

Coming back

to the breath.

Put By

Ruby heads of sedum—

folk-named

stonecrop and live-forever—

blaze, then fade

as days pass

my torpor deepens

chrysanthemums stand scarlet

witness to my grief

their stalwart blush

the flowering of past good work

a hedge against this dark time

weeds unchecked

and I too sad to move

still blessed in color