Upstairs in the study, watching the grey
heron steady its legs beside the pond,
I heard your message from the hospital.
You were searching for the rabbi. Outside,
beneath a magnolia tree, the children
tried to nurse a baby mouse back to life,
squeezing goat’s milk from an eye dropper
and scattering seed from the everything
bagel into the corners of the shoebox.
You said this was your greatest fear.
At the burial, we were protected
from sunlight by outstretched umbrellas.
Your son said, “Daddy now is in the wind,”
and when we each threw petals and three shovels
of dirt into the grave, a gust blew strong
the blazing day. Your umbrella collapsed.
After you had called from the funeral home,
my father-in-law barked out orders
from the back porch, and all my grief,
the loss of every father, surged, uncapped.
Downstairs, in the garage, the children shout.
A hummingbird, caught between panes
of glass, batters turquoise wings against window.
We’re trapped inside our awkwardness.
You cup a fluttering beat in your hands,
and the bird slips back to its sky.