is a creature not to be believed
here in the kitchen, a sudden
dark umbra.
After our brooms
turn to their bristles
and we swipe the ceiling,
my father’s old skin breaks
when we softly collide.
Thomas,
do you see this blood? I almost reach
to touch the slick break,
corona of bruise—
through his body
I enter the body waiting for me—
his arms
dark as the wings
that flail
and fall from the light.
