I Imagine My Father’s Death
I imagine my father’s death. It is bigger
than a breadbox. It is bigger than a Ford
Escort, than a Zeppelin, black and vast
and slow moving, oozing over an Oklahoma
arena. It is bigger than any arena, than
Oklahoma. My father’s death is bigger
than a planet, bigger than the gravity
wells worlds make, that stars stir up after
implosion. It is bigger than all the stars.
It takes up all space, all dimension, all
that is or ever was. It hates everything
it isn’t. It makes new space, new matter
from all it is. My father’s death takes on
form and void and says, “Let there be light.”
And there is light. It says, “Let there be
worlds.” And there are worlds. It says,
“Let there be a garden and a man in it.”
And there is a man. The man is my father.
He looks around, marveling at this thing
his death has made, then sets out to find
someone, anyone, with whom to share it.