I kneel to peep through the lowest jalousie
at where he lies upon the bed, naked leg,
my father’s, under the infrared lamp. I free
my fingernails to peel the paint away, and, beg
that he does not move. I learn the word
urticaria, the welts upon his skin,
like nettle rash I know, and have heard
the doctor, my mother and him whispering.
So, this daily pilgrimage, when no one
is watching, is to revere the fallen hero,
the horseman unmounted, a god’s son,
a crucified one in the Pietà, aglow.
How do I think of him now, my father,
having found him, not looking any further?