On a morning before it gets cold, I lie
at Anderson's Fish Farm buried
in thick shadow grass staring into clouds--
eroding mountains, crumbling into island chains.
I sit up, watch the rippling surface of the water
slowly rearranging the reflection of the clouds'
arrangement. A minnow jumps and breaks
the lapping sky and wrinkles the current;
ebbing circles colliding against the side of a cumulus,
transfiguring it into a shrunken face,
skin draping over bone like dough--
My grandfather floats on the water.
I see his liver-spotted hands fidget with a corner of cloud,
fingering the damp cotton edge, clumsily groping
for a solid grip as he slips into and out of consciousness.
I remember sitting at his bedside, filled with ignorance.
His body diluted, the faint shade of yellow-green algae.
A mist of Vick's Vapo Rub touched my face like aluminum breath.
I didn't know he would die that day until the next day.
He couldn't talk, only roll his empty eyes around the room
Taking in what life remained as his body drifted
farther into stark white sheets tucked into a sky around him.
|