is always shaded with lilac. From the bridge, I can see him taking off his shoes.
He aligns them with the stone steps above the green waters. Before my father died
my mother measured his sleeping body with her arms and translated the dimensions
into earth. She took off her shoes, so as not to wake him. Then, she took off his shoes
without waking him, even though he’d asked her not to, even though he’d said
I’m not ready to go yet. The water that floods the frame drowns all the colors:
it’s raining outside—all the seeds I planted yesterday, bathing in the bruised river.
From the bridge, then under the bridge, I form a bridge out of my body.