He could never say that word—
Said irrevelant, as if he’d meant irreversible
and unrevealing both. Or revenant twisted together with irreverent.
I remember, in rough order, beginning before I was 3:
      sandpaper graininess the dark rubbed up against me
      a set of wooden blocks with shiny metal snaps imbedded in the wood
      dream about the singing monks who carried me along a rutted road
      visitation by an Indian in eagle feathers
ballerina doll
      the mole inside my elbow
      crib bars
      first time I knew my mother lied about my father
      first time I knew I’d made him angry

Today, he’s gone nine months,
consumed by cancer, destroyed by cures, gone,
and in the wake, what before was made of time and narrative,
now only weather, blowing, or hot and cold, or blustering,
but only ever atmosphere:
      playhouse he designed and built where no one fought
      how I knew he’d slap me if I cried and say he hadn’t made me cry
      his last words to me, ticked off, growling that I didn’t have to push
the glass of water at him after
giving him his first liquid morphine
on the day before his death,
how it was his hands, not mine, pushed.

Hurricanes come up the coast--
waves make havoc of the beach,
blow themselves up into air and salt,
salt and water scour out what’s left of summer,
scour my face.   

-- Devon Miller-Duggan