How well you understood the final requirements.
As we watched your father lie dying in the small room
just off the kitchen, his pain took him from us, day
by day. You lifted him onto the commode, carved
a milk jug that he could hold to his penis. At night
you took his voice with us, keeping it next
to our bed in the small speaker box, and you slept
while I listened for his breathing to change
into the calling of your name so that you could rise
from your sleep and go to him with your strong, broad
back. Your voice would join his then in the box at my side,
would let me let go into blessed absence. Now
he has let go for the last time. You helped them
wash his body, put it in the clear plastic bag, and carry it
out the front door. And now, I grow fearful of our own
silence we carry inside. Of your body
climbing on top of mine and barely
moving, of my body underneath, sunken
by your weight. Again and again in our rented rooms
you drift toward me then away. As if you needed
a marker to nudge before going on. As if you
feared lingering in the warm current of flesh
on flesh. Together we wait for some wind
to lift us. As if we were not meant to be
the wingless, grown children we are,
awkward on earth.
Denise Pendleton holds an MFA in Poetry from Washington University. Her poems have appeared in American Sports Poems, Northwest Review, Tar River Poetry,and Kerning among others. Pendleton has almost retired from years of directing a variety of nonprofit programs that promote reading for all ages.