Reclaiming Perspective

Confession: the week after you saw him, he walked  
through the city’s headlights  
in a suit. A stranger  

returned him through pinpricks of sunrise. And again. 
And again—with calls each time  
to report his aimless shadow.  

He could end anywhere and it’s that absolute  
that scared me. You want to believe I’m shame 
sewn, faulty. You want to know 

why he’s in there? Do you think I don’t see  
the other residents nod off or pace out  
broken thoughts? I’m grateful now 

the doors fight back. He must not amble to the pitch  
of a whim. Oh he’s durable, my father,  
but each day he wakes with a little less  

truth. Or truth that won’t help him.  
His window looks to a lodged plum tree.  
He no longer repeats 

his regrets. His small room  
is grand enough to put his name on the wall  
six times. He has enough space  

in his day and mind for unpredictable syllables  
and stock prices that roll and saddle  
his screen. They gleam, painless. 

Misnomers and “accidents” no longer  
torment him. True, he has bones  
for concrete. Sometimes his old city creeps over his face. 

I can’t break him of that. I had to decide 
how far to unravel. For months, he piled unopened mail  
on his bed, size-sorted. All September he gorged 

on weeping. I wanted to wake knowing  
that the dark hadn’t held him  
at knifepoint. Believe me—his life is a lot  

to absorb. I still expect him to remember to sleep  
and kiss and mete or shutter the sun  
when it chunks through his windows. Let soon 

not come yet to his doorway. In phone calls, he pulls out  
any name that sounds about right. We laugh  
at his small creases, and the losses  

don’t scare me like they did. Maybe I’m paying 
for him to be outlined in the blousy sun  
and to cup casual melodies each night.  

Nothing is insignificant, but I know the room  
holds all his history. There’s no doubt he’s dipping below 
membranes. I gather his failure  

at the corners of my mouth 
to use on relatives who intercede: He’s softening 
to broad, precious pauses. He’s safe, I’ll tell them. 

Take the week he started wearing his socks  
eight days in endless conservation, his toes grown 
with fungus. Take the days he spoke  

the immediate future as an ancient alphabet.  
A time will come. His brain is dismantling, 
but he isn’t waiting. His identity is not where he left it.  

I never want him to know  
he’s been wrong. He breathes through his teeth,  
then takes them out. There’s always crud  

on the underside, and I’m so tired  
and unprepared for this. How many rules and lessons  
make a whole life? He can’t say, but of course, I know.