Now That My Father Lies Down Beside Me

(Stanley Plumly)

We lie in that other darkness, ourselves.
There is less than the width of my left hand
between us. I can barely breathe,
but the light breathes easily,
wind on water across our two still bodies.

I cannot even turn to see him.
I would not touch him. Nor would I lift
my arm into the crescent of a moon.
(There is no star in the sky of this room,
only the light fashioning fish along the walls.
They swim and swallow one another.)

I dream we lie under water,
caught in our own sure drift.
A window, white shadow, trembles over us.
Light breaks into a moving circle.
He would not speak and I would not touch him.

It is an ocean under here.
Whatever two we were, we become
one falling body, one breath. Night lies down
at the sleeping center -- no fish, no shadow,
no single, turning light. And I would not touch him
who lies deeper in the drifting dark than life.

*I believe it was Daddy's second night in the hospital when I took this photo using my mobile phone. He didn't want us to see him in his weakest point, but this photo has my Daddy's rare smile. We miss you so much, Daddy.

6 Said So