rise with a sigh from their chairs
knees creaking, take a cup of tea,
go to bed with a book.
But the insufferable dead
like demented children go on
ceremoniously doing that last thing.

Young Daniel in his small plane
over Africa, a giant vulture
at the windshield, leaves
in a great silent rush
without ruffling the light.

I wanted to give my father a gift
for the journey, glazed ginger, a bit
of honey for his tea in the afterlife
I don’t believe in. As I gazed
he became—but can the dead
become?—more absent.

The man into whose arms I walked
with perfect deliberate abandon: the impact
happening keeps happening.

© Deena Linett

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