Father dies as I descend
the last set of stairs.

Antique, black scissors plunge through
his heart. I saw the blood,

the darkness of impossible
roses seep the blinding white

of his serious shirt. A pale buttoned,
unbuttoned everyday for thirty years.

His cotton army hangs
in the closet, white after white.

Father, you know
I’m left here

with a report, a file in my
hand. Feel the smooth

dead of the fiber.
A tree has fallen.

There is work to do before
they return. I cover you,

the mess of roses
spreads to the chair.

The sun is setting behind your
death. Tomorrow

they will replace the chair.