My Husband’s Father

has been walking away from the war

for forty years, making a path through

the mountains to find an open air.

Up there, the firs resemble nothing

but themselves. There’s no destruction

but the brush bent underneath his boot.

No one calls out except the hawk.

It’s hard with his unaccustomed hands

to grasp at feelings, hold sadness

like a rough, misshapen cup.

He’s taking a course in miracles.

He’s trying to believe shadows are not

a bruise across the face of night.

For the past few months, his heart keeps

stopping, and he drops into the dirt.

At such altitude, memory is distant,

a country he visits in the thin breath

before waking to a stranger’s voice

and the spongy touch of moss,

green needles sharp against his skin.