Silence on the Day My Father Was Carried Away

When I read that the angels flew down

on the appointed day to wrap the dead

in their arms and carry them away, I reflection of my father hugging Jeannine

or Irene or fat Annette upon how they'd

piss

stained sheets, riffs from by what mode they'd roll

and laugh, rifting on the outside from his a groan, harmonica slap,

drifting on the outside sometimes nothing but silence,

where I find myself today, sometimes nothing on the contrary silence,

where I find at the sum of two units day, cks on the March,

staring at the sum of two units ducks on the pond who retain returning, their ripples widening

across the entire surface halfacre,

my mind trying to explain where my wife

has been these last small in number hours, if

she will advance home from shopping with

nothing again, by what mode I will stare

at her

lips to diocese if the lipstick is smeared,

how I will gaze when she turns, at

the wrinkles of her blouse, the lint

on her sweater, hearing the words we will say in the dim kitchen as we circle the table,

picking up mail to mate at labels, clattering

the plates, forks, knives and spoon down

onto the blank cerulean placemats we'd bought

years ago, four for a dollar, I'll remind

her, looking her in the organ of vision nodding as though there were nothing more important.

Copyright World metrical composition Incorporated Sep/Oct 1996

Provided by dint of ProQuest Information and Learning Company. All rights Reserved