A Father, and The Disappearance, and Hoarder

A Father

who’d put down the drink—decades of shouting coiled in quiet—

sat forward on his folding chair:What should he do about the son

who wouldn’t speak, who postedI wish he were dead. I offered

one of our bromides, and he stared,twisting fingers and lips.

Where was the angelto lift him by the hair

as he twisted in the avernal current?If I have wings, they’re dog’s wings,

my old body a dog’s, floatingover the cold eye.

The Disappearance

Twice Donald did something with his mouthI hadn’t seen before: oldbaby grin.His eyes locked on mine as the joke lawyerran down ifs if nots we hope notsbillable. Which Dickens he was I don’tknow—Heep or Tulkinghorn or nothingmore vile than flat eyes and a tight tie.Donald was mute, his mouth making the strangesmile as he walked his stick down a steep street.Gin on an empty stomach and he was out,mechanically shoveling in haddock. Three timesI asked Are you okay, can you hear me?and his hand poked fries into his mouth,speechless black hole I wish were fiction.

Hoarder

Don’t talk to me—he’s siftingpapers heaped like leaves. Hetakes one from a creased envelopeand puts it back. How did he dragthe spare fridge from the shedwhen the white hulk died?

After the dump run, maybeyou’ll see my grouse. She comesclose to the car and scolds me,she’s trying to teach me Grouse.

Food blackens in the warm fridge.I sidestep salvaged lumber, openthe back door—I’m lookingfor the ruffed bird. Begging the air.