I wanted to be
a saint: to hold
two candles crossed
against my father’s
throat, like a pair
of open scissors,
to cure his cough.
In my dream,
he spoke a language
with no words
for praise. His throat
was an empty quiver;
he wore the silence
like a paper robe.
He wanted to be
a bird: to hollow
out his bones until
they were lighter
than mint. Now,
I am my father’s
ghost, sleeping
in my father’s bed.
I pass the hours
in the rut his body
left behind. His dreams,
small as chess pieces,
visit me each night.
They ask me when
he’s coming back.
I bat them away,
as if they were flies.
I haven’t figured out
how to kill them yet.
