My Father Died Three Times
My father died three times,
defying death’s rule of one.
Statues of stillness,
an unintended museum of moments
I revisit often.
His first death still haunts me.
One drink summoned the thief.
A stranger’s eyes appeared in my father’s face,
grinning at the ground he’d gained.
His second death was a slow detonation,
a bomb held between im-
and ex-
plode.
Each sip he took turned want into need,
never quenching the thirst of the thief.
The third death came on a winter morning,
his body deserted, hollow before me.
A final offering from the grinning thief,
the discarded bottle he finally drained.
My Dad is done with his dying now,
the final funeral for all his deaths.
We stand shoulder to shoulder-
five descendants of dad and thief-
to say one last goodbye.
Each of us
looking back with his light blue eyes,
curating what remains.
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