After I prepared for my father to die,
And everything remained uncertain,
I waited—all we can do. Pull love
From the sky in the form of clouds
As the frost on glass thaws
To puddles. I sink into all the blue
Like in the sea. The wind carried
Fever. I stay spit-drunk and cry
About my father’s potential of dying
Alone. In the hospital, he eats thanks-
Giving dinner alone—we all eat alone
This year. Buy our groceries for curb-
Side pickup. I want to rip up the roots
Of these plants I bought and feel
As powerful. I want to tell Pete
Ricketts that he is a fucking clown
For the second time. I really just want
For my father to not die. I want to make
These words pretty. I only hope they
Mean something at all. I wish
Into the sink. Nosebleed blooms
And washed out. I spit pieces
Of tooth elsewhere. The taste
Of copper in my mouth. As I speak
With my father, he looks
At the flowers I sent him. Tell me,
I say, can you smell them now?