July at Rose Blumkin

Even this early in the morning,

heat breathes heavily against the panes

& the light’s a white flame that warps

the glass of this picture window

overlooking the “wander garden”

& its border of young maples & beyond them—

I swear—gravestones rising

from the mist in the cemetery

just across the road. We’ve arrived

to find your father dozing here,

in the television room, deaf

to the chattering loop of Lucy reruns

flickering the big screen & the rhythmic

nonstop barking of the woman

slumped in the wheelchair

closest to it. At ninety-two, his skin’s

almost translucent & his arms

are mottled with bruises the bitter

purple of ruined eggplants, & nearly

that large, a sorry map of needle sticks

& places where he’s rested too long

against his walker. When he wakes

he knows us, but not our names,

what year it is, or how to call up sense

& syntax from the ruptured channels

harrowing his brain. Not all

he says is gibberish: This is the shits,

he tells us. We’re not doing this again.

A man named Buddy, still dapper

in pressed jeans & a turtleneck, agrees.

Some daughter must do his laundry.

Mostly the men & women here

are incontinent, & like your father,

mostly they refuse to eat.

The young nurses are mostly kind,

some of them lovely, as they crush pills

into applesauce for spoon feeding,

offer juice boxes, & speak softly

to their charges, who doze

& nod, tremulous as dandelion puffs,

on the frail stalks of their necks.

It’s hard to leave, & you give your father

your hand, tell him how many days

it will be until you return.

He repeats the number, three,

& seems to understand, & though all

his life he was a man uneasy

with affection, now bends

to kiss your fingers, courtly & sad.