I lift a dark curtain to the crown of the windowpane,
twist until the spring rod is taut across the jambs.
A hum pinches from my throat. The drape a current
my hands trace, the ribbed foam I pressed in panels
on my father’s wall. His mouth held to the small cane,
pipes and valves shifted beneath his fingers. His breath
bloomed from the bell’s open lip. Many times, I knocked
too softly at his door, spoke the low drone of complaint.
At church, he palmed the broken lobes of Communion,
offered torn morsels of the body. If he split anything
for me and my brother to share, I wouldn’t want it.
