For a while after he died
my father didn’t seem to
discern dream visitors, but
I was amazed nonetheless
to witness his swift and
serene rejuvenation. From
time to time I’d find him
dining outdoors in beautiful
locales, a multicolored
grain on his plate I’d
never seen elsewhere.

Yes, laughed the server,
it’s a staple here; a sort
of national dish, I guess,
like potatoes in Ireland,
pasta in Italy, couscous
in Morocco, rice in Japan
or Madagascar. We can’t
get enough of it, and it’s
remarkably nutritious.
What’s it called? I asked.
She replied, metaphysics.

More Poems by Kate Farrell