There, while I slept, we
were together, moving under
jutting rocks, loose stone
falling on our windshield.
My dead father sat next
to me as I drove the car.
I kept an eye on the road,
while simultaneously stealing
glances at my passenger.
He said no more than a few words.
The wind, he whispered, never
changes. Feels the same here, every-
where. At the end he couldn’t eat
or walk or read or speak. The body
shriveled in twisted silence.
Barely breath, or any type of move-
ment. It is the silence I thought
of then. The silence I think of now:
I can steal, for a second, any quick
image. The glancing light on a bag
of piss. White lighter left motionless,
covered in dust, on the nightstand.
His right hand, gnarled from work.
The silence I see with closed eyes.
Everywhere, light on top of dark water.