This man
is not my father.
This man
is not my husband.
This man lies
as pale as an old, white bone
in a room of quiet shadows.
Photos trapped in silent frames
tremble in the corners.
This man lies
awash in blankets
engulfed by hoses
swallowed by boxes
that beep, and purr.
The doctors
have taken away his hair;
his head lies shining as an infant's.
Disease
has sucked away his body
and left this tiny child's husk.
Twisting in his bowels
the black serpent awakes.
This man
waits.
But
a stubborn grey beard
curls fiercely on his chin
like Ahab's
and though the swimmer gasps
the tide boiling up to his eyes
in shadows, I still see it
in sleeping eyes still open:
the captain grasps the bow
and drags his boat to sea.
And standing at the foot
of your dark bed
I am your daughter, and your wife
and only wish to say,
but do not,
good luck in your voyage.
March 28, 1988