Today is the day of finishing little tasks.
The words of his body locked in a stroke
the doctors can’t edit.
* * *
He walks through the brown field
in Vietnam, the ambush,
agent orange pedals in the sweat.
The nurse spoons in pureed beets,
wipes his mouth, elevates the dead hand
that was filled with fire.
* * *
He held my wings in one hand,
the scissors in the other
and after the clip I beat my wings
so much harder to fly.
He steers my face’s pale fire
from the psychiatrist to the hospital,
the stomach pump, the in-patient.
He says,
whoever you become now,
I will love him.
* * *
And father, people have begun
to love my words, chewed so hard
in your mouth, fed into mine.