I Know (I'm Losing You)

Have you ever touched your father's back?

No, my fingers tell me, as they try to pull up a similar memory.

There are none.

This is a place we have never traveled to, as I try to lift his weary body.

I recall a photo of him standing in front of our house.

He is large, healthy, a stocky body in a dark blue suit.

O, bag of bones, this is all I'll know of his body,

the sharp ridge of spine,

the bedsores, the ribs rising up in place like new islands.

I feel his fingers grip my shoulders.

He is slipping to dust.

My hands inform me.

You'd better remember this.