His bony knees scrape
their slow way toward
the passenger seat because
there’s no rushing this
living;

the body is a congenital
gift, a boulder to impel
through each day, its face
limned in rough beauty.

Once tucked into the little
Chevy, my father lowers
his brow, waits
behind closed eyes

for words that refuse
to arrive. Soon
I will drive him to the test
where they’ll shove
an acid strip down his nose

and into his stomach,
because this is what it means
to survive
after the cancer.

He’s stolen thirteen years.
Yet luck, too, is painful.
Maybe this will earn him moksha;
he’ll rise up to the divine,

but I’m no wax-winged cosmonaut
gliding out to find him. Someday,
it will be simple.
Just goodbye.
Now, our lives intertwine

like a rustic mobile
of the solar system: thread,
twigs, and painted paper orbs,
in a laggard, windless spin.

Photo by Shawn Flynn Wang on Unsplash