There was a snowstorm and school
          was cancelled. My father and I
went to a matinee about a talking car.
           There was one seat left
so, I sat in his lap in the dark. We didn’t leave
           until after credits rolled.

*

Women sit in rows of wheelchairs in front
           of the nursing station. They wear yellow vests
with the hospital name printed on the back, bruises
           on cheeks from falls. One rises with purpose.

           Where are you going?
           I’m leaving.
           You should sit down, dear.
           I can’t. I need to figure out where I am.

From his own wheelchair, my father says he is injuring us
           with impatience, with dying demands, as if
petroleum jelly in his nose dried by oxygen prongs, the soiled
           commode, the walker with disintegrating foam
handles, the pus drooling from a bed sore, as if those
           were an inconvenience to us.

*

When we leave, he invents reasons for our return.
           He shouts for water. His blanket has fallen.

Ignored, he dreams he is immune to restless line dancing
           clouds before storm, needs no help to arrive back

at his original shape, speechless again, dropped spoon before
           floor, hesitation before thought, final exhalation is a first cry.

His diaper needs changing. Not all ending is Hollywood. Time
           doesn’t reverse. There is no enchanted blue butterfly

hovering outside the window. A lover becomes a parent.
           We forget the names of our children.

*

The gold wristwatch he gave me for safe keeping.
           scratches a hole in my pocket like a trapped
squirrel. When I was born. It stopped. He said it was magic,
           but it was the stunning acid of his sweat.

From there I drift into a flickering memory of my first love.
           He tells me we will be together forever. He covers me
in blankets. I haven’t seen him in years, yet he stays. I play
           this over and over. This time, the soundtrack
piano is faster. This time, it concludes with a dead balloon
           at a picnic. It is a lung.

*

Home, I sing my favorite pop song
           in the shower, memorized chorus effortless as breathing
in sleep, the loud crescendo of water like applause.
           It’s epic, but the power fails halfway through.

I make lentil stew in a fondue pot, sit in my towel in darkness.
           The only thing that shines is glass under a candle,
my anticipation like a phantom limb, waiting for the lights
           to come up after a movie. Real Life.

At 2am, he wakes my mother from dozing
           in the plastic guest chair, to hold
her hand in the white noise of canned air
           and ask what will happen next.