i found a spider on the kitchen
floor: hairy and black.
i asked it to let me see my father again.
but first i trapped it under some tupperware
(a clear container so i could keep an eye out,
watch it climbing the sides, trying to escape).
i apologized for detaining it, until a guy could
come by and set the spider free in the yard.
yes, i am afraid of the things i love.
yes, i am in love with the things i fear.
it is not above me to ask a man for help;
after all, i brought him into this world.
i dreamt of my father that night—and every
night thereafter; like before, only happier:
he was himself, mostly whole, mostly
glad to be with us again; longing to stay,
but always having to leave by the end.
mornings always bring the farewell.
i visit death so often it
has become a furry friend.