She carries him to bed, raises and locks the safety bar,
picks up Metamorphoses and reads aloud the stories of the gods,
comforted by the transformations of their bodies,
the dramas of their fucked-up lives, their children’s
fucked-up lives, their celebrations nonetheless of love.
Eventually, the worn paperback will fall from her lap to the floor,
its pages folding like the petals of a shy-lady fern,
and in the morning she will find it and hold it to her breast.

Disguised as an object in the room, she will lean over
the body of her father, a shadow in the corner,
hands clutching the safety bar as she waits,
her presence a delicate happening, watching
for the slight rise of his ribcage telling
her there is air going into his lungs.