Riverlight

Frank Stanford

My father and I lie down together.

He is dead.

We look up at the stars, the steady sound

Of the wind turning the night like a ceiling fan.

This is our home.

I remember the work in him

Like bitterness in persimmons before a frost.

And I imagine the way he had fear,

The ground turning dark in a rain.

Now he gets up.

And I dream he looks down in my eyes

And watches me die.