Miracle Way

My dad is dying, I say, after the call comes

when I have to tell my boss, my best

friend, more friends, the man who will fly

to be with me when his body is lowered

into the dark emptiness.

I say it, like a practice for letting

the light fracture, the roots uproot,

their gnarled moan enter where

I cannot find breath, hold silence,

where the phone line tightens,

truth too bare to be bribed, to be

cloaked, beribboned on the tongue

that tastes what was rationed — reconciliation,

time, love —

no… not love

because we want to believe we’ve given

enough and given well, that the unspoken

flows through blood.

When we break our promises, isn’t the pain

we carry a weighted love?

What’s created in the chasm but a ringing

of every tenderness we think

we don’t deserve?

My dad is dying, I say,

after the mind leaps, rupture

after the call comes in,

and revision, and the body staggers

into a dream of rampant thieves

and the heart keeps its beat

open

wild miracle

making the way

we will walk.

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