I am watching the future of your bodymolder. Gristle, wild boar, mole’s fur, applecore, mulberry, wind-downed leaf.By now your cells are forest black earthor the moist dirt in a flower pot.Father, I’ve waded this far in orderto speak to your smallest ear.I’ve come to ask some speechless thing.Time has passed, there are no longerseasons, and I barely recall the namefor water—often when I say blood I meanwater. Maybe I’ve come to ask forgiveness,to properly grieve your fatherlessness . . .It’s hard to tell. My eyes have beenshut for some time. Pieces of me keepbreaking off, shifting, even the youin me has changed. While you cookedoxtail soup, I set the table. You satat the head, sucked the marrow, twirled,licked, and chewed the bone. Father,you left nothing in the bowl becausewhen there was food you ate the foodand brought the bowl like a cup to your lips.And I love like that. I call you fatherbecause my arm is finally long enough to reachacross earlier oceans. Farther, you say,and losing my tongue I stretch faruntil I am sky. Father, I whisper, searchingfor my teeth. Doves, you say. Mourning,I repeat. Let the doves do the calling for me.