The Dance That Fathers Dance
In those dark hours
of winter
in that first year
As the gray light
of dawn crept
into my east-facing
bedroom window
I was already up and walking
a slow path across the hard
wood floor
Gently bouncing your
small body with one arm
underneath
The other hand patting and rubbing
We danced cheek to cheek
We danced the rocking, bouncing dance
that fathers dance in the absence of
moonlight when breast
and nipple have failed to soothe
We danced until morning
creased the air imperceptibly
indistinguishable from dawn, dusk, or noon
And we fell exhausted into
impermanent sleep
like lovers collapsed and safe in
languid embrace
Our faces so close as to
suggest we'd never not been this way
As if time were not lineal
Our bond existing past, present and future
Our dance the dance of creation
the dance of conclusion
the dance of infinite regress
Sleep
Eleven P.M.
She is still awake
Boundless energy
2 Years and 8 days
Sleep does not come naturally
I am at my computer
Working
I want to go to bed
She explores every room
Like a butterfly
Flitting from flower to flower
Extracting a bit from this one
Leaving it in the next one
She's been tucked in five times
She fights sleep with every ounce of
Wonder and curiosity she can find
Staring at the screen
I notice my eyelids and chin
Giving in to gravity
"C'mon," I say
She submits to my arms
One soft cheek resting on my shoulder
Transportation of trust
We move as one down the hall
I lie very still
Next to her
Pretending I am falling asleep
Maybe not quite pretending
Nothing but the silence of darkness
And two people breathing
A rhythmic anomaly
Sameness of purpose
Two separate meters
And in that moment
Before the last fragments of conscious thought
Fade into perfect stillness
A small hand slides out
From beneath the covers
Strokes my beard twice
And retreats
Contented
She sleeps
Pray
PrayIn your garden
With earthworms and
Beetles beneath
Your feet
Pray
So hard
Your muscles ache and
Sweat shines from
Pores in your skin
Pray
So heavy
You can hardly hold it
Strip
it down until it’s
Naked and cold
Revealing flaws and
Bumps and red, raw
Patches that sting
When rain gently pours
Peel
Away its skin
Exposing raw nerves
Veins and muscles
Boil
It down to nothing
But residue and
Drop
it into the
Beggar’s cup
Your father’s grave
Your homemade bread
Your empty heart
Until there’s nothing left
But you
Softly singing
Undertaker
I.
Grief lies flat to the belly and sparkles from the mouths of our dead.
II.
The shadow of the candle
Casts long upon her bare table
Flicks specks of wax into unattended air
Backlit by streetlight
Thrown burning blue through unwashed glass
The widow is not home
She sits at his side
Black shoes mud caked brown
And evidence of elements on her hem
Motion stirs the stillness
Like gravity interrupted
And she jolts out of half-sleep
Her heart now beating strong enough to have kept him whole for god knows how long
It may have been that he had moved
And she stares unblinking
Barely breathing
For what might as well be forever
But the ones who pull their pay from the pockets of sorrow
And bereavement have seen it all before
The undulant motion of half-sleep grief
The snap and the stare and the shallow, throat-grasped breath
Ancient ritual of mourners and shomrim
Her eyes settle upon his peaceful rise of check
And brows and lids now lithe with false sleep
And the thought that creeps to occupy her waiting consciousness is
That the undertaker has done a good job