Hover outside the room with this bag of herbs, a spy.
Fight my own impulse to run the other way, fly.
Dad, broken lips, bruised arms, hospital bed.
A rough white washcloth, James pats his head,
reads to him from his favorite book, Don Quixote.
I shift in the doorway.
All of spring break spent catching up on homework,
taking turns caring for Dad,
I’ve been reading him Alice in Wonderland,
she almost drowns in a river of her own tears,
lost, confused in an upside-down kingdom,
something he used to read
to us before bed.
James walks out, nods at me,
passes me the rough cloth, a baton,
and, like Alice, given no choice
but to bathe in her own tears,
I take it—
trade places with him,
the cloudy white room of
my own upside-down kingdom,
with cloth,
bag of herbs,
tape recorder
in hand, I wade in.