DEVOTION
When I was on verge of a breakdown
at twenty-eight, he drove three hours to get me.
I couldn’t have called my other brothers
they weren’t those kind of brothers.
Tomorrow, his second brain surgery.
His dignity puddles on the bathroom
floor. I pull up his pants,
slip socks over ragged toenails.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, he repeats.
To distract him, I suggest Wordle.
He smiles like a child.
Tremors make it hard to focus,
his eyes flutter. I tuck him
into our king bed, my hands shaking.
MY FATHER’S AFGHAN
There’s an afghan in my writing
studio at the edge of the couch.
The blanket is small—a three foot
square. My father’s friend crocheted
it when she could not heal him.
Brought it to the hospital, draped it
at the foot of his bed. Each stitch
a laying on of hands. This is where
my dog sleeps, head against a throw
pillow, ears at rest. His black and white
spotted coat sinks into the rough wool.
Sometimes, he whimpers in a dream.
AWAKENING
My tongue skates on the ice of his teeth,
tastes the purple juice trickle.
I watch his hand caress each blackberry,
index finger and thumb around
magenta pearls, gentle pressure.
Gathered in his shirttails,
stained with burst and hope.
Feel his stubble scrub my virgin face.
Pads of his fingertips graze a shoulder blade,
the tenderness of that hand.
His breath hot against my neck.
A woman pushes a girl aside
when the fruit begins to flower.