Bird Calls

When he can’t escape boredom,

pain, or the exhaustion of words

by fleeing into another nap,

my father sits in the yard,

mimicking the birds.

When I hear him whistling

outside by himself, I feel called

to keep him company.

Sometimes, I’m too busy.

Sometimes, I pretend not to hear.

He’s always reaching for me now,

long nails curving over finger tips,

his palms worn sateen.

I pat the back of his hand,

rough as tree bark,

and tell him I can’t stay. 

Bad Memory Unit 1

Dad threatens to throw a chair

through the window. He shits

in other people’s bathrooms, grabs

the aides and plants unwanted kisses

on their hands, strokes their hair and

their soft, oiled arms. I try to laugh

it off—like he’s the dementia-fueled

rock star of memory care, bad-boy

of the locked ward, with a missing tooth

and three ballcaps stacked on his head.

But when the warmth in his eyes catches

fire, he bellows, baring a mouthful

of yellowed tiles, his arms flailing, and

I shrink back from that old burnt-fuse.

Bad Memory Unit 2

Dad, it’s ok. You don’t need to

keep the chair pressed against

the door. No one is coming for you.

Yes, that guy is, and I’ve got a knife

under my bedspread because he hates me.

No, no one hates you. You don’t know that.

I can see the death stare in his eyes.

I never touched the women’s nipples,

just kissed their hands. It’s ok, dad.

No, it’s not. You have to go now.

I pulled the cord that said “emergency”

because this isn’t a safe place.

It is a safe place, dad, no one is coming.

Yes, no one is coming.