4 a.m.

In the warm light of my desk lamp, you died tomorrow
At 4 a.m. in words from my fingers explaining
You were gone, that I stood at your footprint
On a plain of undone spirits I couldn't tend to
When the children awoke and I made them eggs for breakfast.

Tomorrow at 4 a.m. I live past you in each breath
My slim mouth mirrors yours on the mountain
You snatched a look at me through the fiery cloud, soon closing,
My lungs fill with walks, old movies
Waiting for the unsaid.

Crooks, all of them. Don't trust your own mother.
Take care of your own. How I tried
But couldn't stand the weeping of the leaves
On another path you never walked, it's different here,
Shuddering in the wind, I wear another coat, keep you in the lining.

I eat the fruits of your life richly, but hunger for the stories and the spruce 
On the wings of gulls hovering over the catch at dawn,
Waiting for their time, long past 4 a.m., 
When the beak clenches the body, swallows it rising
As I you on this day, so you can watch it through my eyes.

For my father, a Republican I loved.