(For My Father)





“Il pleut,” the French say. It cries.
And it rained today, it cried.

I watch my hand reaching for the soap. I see it is your hand,
ropy, mottled, hesitating, wandering. Is that soap?, it says. Everything is so dark.
Surely you will call me, walk through the door, take another breath, open your eyes.

But no. My hand reaches for your shroud, fresh cloth bought this evening.
I hold it so close to feel warmer against the rain; your hand was so cold.