Crossing

I’m not the first man to lose his father

slowly, not the first to wonder

when I walk in the room if the watery light

in his eyes means son or stranger.

Some days, I think he’s lashed to a mast

only he can see, trapped there to weather

the final season without giving in

to its song. Some days, he points at the clock

like he’s late for a meeting at the bank.

What wide horizon awaits him

when he stares at the gray wall for hours?

Does he see the story of his youth,

hour by hour, dollar by dollar,

unfurl like hieroglyphics along temple stone?

Or does he admire the imperfections

in the paint—the chip, the humble bubble

along the drywall that would not smooth?

But I do not ask him: I cannot

find the gangplank I would use to board

that ship, cannot find the sextant

to chart the stars he now sails by.

When I rock my head between my knees

or knead my brow, I’m not suffering

some way the old masters hadn’t catalogued

by quill and lamplight, not rolling

a new boulder up the eternal hill.

This is the port from which we all wave goodbye.

I feed him chicken and rice,

rub lotion on his bruising limbs.

When I leave, I tell him how long it will be

before I see him next, knowing time,

for him, is not a line, but a tide.