Learning To Let Go
by Kenneth Wanamaker


Miller moths flit around my father's head:
A new generation hatched
during three weeks
at the medical center: his heart.

He bats at them
with a yellow swatter,
mutters how they laid their eggs
in the oat bran he left
open on the sill.

I want to fume out the moths forever,
find a pretty tin for the oats,
one with a tight lid.
I can see better arrangements for
the mugs, the cereal, but I fear
he will lose his way in my ordered
world, unable to navigate without
the pepper shaker in its usual spot.

Only the moths have a new spot
and the valve in his heart.
I think I hear it flutter
when he lifts his arm.





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