My father

eats celery

on his deathbed

munching it hard

like meat,

warning of the

expectations of women,

admonishing me

not to let them down

as he did

throughout

the self-proclaimed ruins

of his 85 years.

 

Holding the celery

like a staff

he anoints

women as owls

who trick men

into snares.

Proclaims that he, like Job

in the enveloping darkness

is companion to owls,

his life

a court

of the forsaken,

awaiting Gospel,

the Advent,

for light to appear.