My Father Dreams
My father is dying.
His hands shake.
Despite their involuntary vibrations,
he tries to wipe “the sticky” from his chin,
a joke we share from when I was the child.
In death he is not deceived,
but at times he slips into a place you or I perceive as dream.
For him such definition dims,
though I think of these “spells” as ones he casts upon himself
to wash away the disease,
some sort of mythic baptism to set his body free.
My father, raised by fundamental folk,
never speaks of redemption, or of what will happen after.
His holiest memory the time he and his best friend, Butch,
raided the sacristy, got drunk on communal wine.
He said he could see the hair on the back of my grandpa’s hands
bristle
before the strap came down.
My father once told me that going to church
never made anyone holy,
but when I worried for his salvation,
he assured me he prayed
every single day.
I sit with him and hope
my father dreams.
— Corrine Frisch
Corrine Frisch is the books and poetry editor of Illinois
Times.
People’s Poetry accepts poems on any subject, but ones that deal with issues
of local interest are encouraged. Send yours to Books and Poetry Editor Corrine
Frisch c/o Illinois Times, P.O. Box 5256, Springfield, IL 62705, or to
cfrisch@illinoistimes.com with
“People’s Poetry” in the subject line.
This article appears in Dec 2-8, 2004.
