For my Father

Worlds away
on a wire
my father sings a raspy
hoarse-throated birthday greeting
over the telephone
He has always sung a bit off pitch
though earnestly, marked back to rhythm
by my mother’s truer voice

This time though
Each syllable  
that comes to me from him
is a true island of being alive
He is calling from the hospital after surgery
raspy from pain, hoarse from
Anaesthesia
laying in a recovery room
as if on a narrow, unrailed balcony suspended
as we all are
between life and death

And I, who live far too much only in moments
between those assuaging oceans of anesthetic neglect
I too hover here on my imagined balcony
looking down at the things undone, upward
to the path-tokens of the way
the 9/8 murmur of snow turned to rain
in the gutters on the roof
cat curled on the chair by the fire
like an ouroboros
and inward to the bell-tone muffle of my heart
that passenger who travels the moments
with me, mostly forgotten.

Heart, tell me again my credo
Give me pause to listen
So that I walk well, pacing the moments
each such a gift
Hide not the sorrow or joy
Let me have ears for both and let them pass on
For I am my father in this moment
and he sings not for my birth
but for that thing that has always been unspoken
between us
That something that vibrates
outside of wires
or time, or any boxes of mind
so that, mother, father, all 
we are a chorus.

26 March 2011