Birth of the Dead

He was 85 With his Ph.D. When he died of cancer And on his deathbed He wept to his wife, “It’s not fair.” My father, at 84, Oh Father, Had contempt For his friend’s comment, Which did not make me feel, Any better. Come to me like a child. I’d like to think That death is like A slice of ice Sliding off The edge Of its glacial body, Fed into a frothing sea of its essence. Oh father, We all reach that moment When the clock Has wound down And at that point We realize Time Had never been Moving forward, But, in fact, was ticking backwards From the moment Of the start. I sit With my back Against a tree Thinking Through My shoulder blades, My heartbeat Knocking Like a flower Nodding In a summer breeze. This is enough for me, For now.