The day I turned thirty
my father's body changed.
Skin turned inside out.
Eyeballs rolled into a dark corner.
It was as if he had walked into a room and forgotten why,
and I did not know what to say
to remind him of his place.
He says, I am old. What he means is, you are not young anymore.
He says, my shoulder is dislocated. He means, time is out of joint.
He says, remember how I carried you
when you fell asleep watching Denver the Last Dinosaur
and woke not knowing if you lost time—
if it was evening or dawn?
It is like that now. You do not know.
Every year I keep his name, he thinks he is snatching from me.
I say, this is our time. These are our hours.
He says, you're deaf.
But year after year, I hear him—
the rubble in his broken back,
the sandal paste on his forehead
cracking like a wall
around a white and ghastly temple.
