Late summer after chemo
Then, a July day
& still now, you sitting husked
in the windless air. Hunched in the middle
of our boat. I had never seen you not paddle.
I had never seen you grip the gunnels like a child
or fear any small breach. I saw you weaken
& there was no lesson. We both knew to tear skin,
even a tiny wound flushed & open would mean
no fence. You, an exposed frame. Did I want you
to deny it? That your blood did not know
what to do? & I saw you fumbling for a spine—
a knowing. Encircled in sentences. Asking
what you have always held to hold you. I lost
my prayers watching you stumble on the recitation
of our favorite holy words. What else would the Father do
to my father? His son. There was no lesson hung out,
a caught limb or fleece in the willow branches.
Only twigs leaning over from shore. There was no meaning
at hand, only bodies kneeling against a drop more
blood lost: simply a day crossing into dusk. How life turns
away. & still, breath: spring tendrils, overgrown
& tangled with river roots. Water rushing
under thin bone canoes
