Luna Moth

To the end, my father's slow dying was rarely

corrupted by pain. Cared for exquisitely

through the hole in his arm, he settled into peace

and shuffled its paces through the house.

Remembering him works like a mechanism

engaged, a rehearsal of parts : a white grip

on the metal bar, his voice smeared

on tape, an unrolling cylinder,

the needle pump, click and flash

of four rolls of film

he took from the bed

he could not rise from:

Squared captives of sunlight—

what needed to be said at every slant

of day against the filthy buildings

peering through his window—

each photo signed at the bottom

by the bed's aluminum railing

and the plant at his side in a blast of light—

the sole point of clarity.