Photo by Daniele Levis Pelusi via Unsplash

Genesis

I walk slowly with my father.
. We match our steps
. to the tick of the clock.
I walk slowly with my daddy.
. His eyes are half-closed,
his hand clasps my arm.

How wonderful to be so close,
. his hesitant gaze
. guiding our conversation.
Words of beginning
. detach from his lips
like the white round egg from its shell.

Door. Hallway. Window. Sky.

We walk down the hall, past the ward
. where nurses worry
. over a new patient.
Eyes rimmed with red, a woman
. leans against the wall.
It can always be worse.

We’re silent, after, in a full,
. blue stillness. His hand
. rests in my palms.
His face is younger than mine
. under the white
turban of bandage.

Soon, he closes his eyes to listen
. to my new poem. Soon,
. I stumble. Again,
again. These words
. don’t relate to us. They are torn
from the fragile body of things
. that can be told simply.