September 15

A year ago today

my father was a babe born again

an egg cracking in flames

a pink body emerging, unburnt

soft hands grasping at thoughts

skin hardening as the billowing chemicals blow away

as the tubes are drawn out

as the foot touches the floor again, a sacred moment.

From pain and weakness at the end to pain and weakness at a beginning

from a bed of death to a bed unshared.

A sad silence crouching, a watched man watches back unblinking.

A spirit circles around the room

and two cats wait with four cat eyes.

His hands find other things to grasp besides wine glasses and the shrinking arms of his absent mate:

Needles and thread, paper and pen

handlebars, paintbrushes

and the neglected neck of a banjo.

I played songs for him while he lay swollen, the chrysalis between two lives.

His eyes rolling and watery

found me from behind the veil of medicine, from across the universe

and knew me.

I had a reason then to raise my banners and fight for his peace

the day I saw him waving from the deck of a troubled ship.