You know after death, you have to go by yourself.
—Blind Willie Johnson
When I brush the strings with my sleeves, pulling the oars back,
I hear the lagoon music of a blues dream in which I ferry
my father’s ashes, though the song I sing is no funeral song,
and I carry his ashes only
when the oars part the air
inside this dream I have of Venice,
asleep in Mississippi.
When I brush the strings with my sleeves, I carry my father
to meet my father, that he might hear the music the way
that ships, clouds, mirrors hear the music. When I brush
the strings with my sleeves, it is
my father returning to this dream
in which I ferry toward him, and away,
singing, laughing, always
disappearing, always music. When I cry, I cry backward
in the direction of my rowing, tears like crystal minnows
leaping back into my eyes. I know, I know, rowing his ashes,
clouds move in the mirror when
the mirror moves. I will meet you
back home, ferry you
across the long water. There is
no balm like the blue sleep of water. This music, my father,
tears like crystal minnows swimming off ahead of me,
salt smell of the lagoon. Goodbye strings, goodbye song,
guitar that is a ferry
for the child of ashes,
music of street vendors
from the widening shore.