Sunday, June 28, 2009

Moonlight Sonata

My father's on his deathbed
barely conscious
lying as he will lie
till the last breaths go out.
All around him
the muted hush of hospital hallways.
I do not think of the past
but somehow
those delicate, melancholy notes,
always in my life,
accompany this last act.

He played them once. I listened.
And despite his brute anger, his absence,
he did give this love
in the only way he could: through his fingers,
connected to his inarticulate heart,
the one,
in the flung body on his mother's grave,
that was surrounded by the dark.

When he was gone
and we walked out into the night
I looked for the moon.
It was, rightly, hidden,
but the night was somehow ablaze
with what had been accomplished:

a man's last breaths
a man's last notes

the slow movement

had come to the silence

of its end

11 June 2009

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