I do not have a poem tonight,
but here is a rock
fish seasoned with lemon
pepper and dill, sweet
potatoes and a glass of wine.
I live in a sturdy house
on a quiet street
except during the summer
when the firecrackers
announce it’s time to refuse
sleep the way
a fish refuses the hook’s pull
toward daylight.
My father sits down with us tonight,
elbows on the table and famished.
His body was cremated
last week, his ashes left alone
in his own sturdy house until I arrive
to scatter them at sea.
How much of a meal do we save
for the dead? How do you say to them,
it’s okay to sleep now?
or—refuse sleep, eat what you want?
or—there is no meal, just these