Reclamation

The moon was a hook the night he died
beneath the wheels of his car.
                                  A starless sky.
They rowed out to tell me.
I stayed in my canoe
while the swallows dipped into the soft black lake.
          The sun fell in after them. It sank
like granite while I refused
to let the gentle night
gentle me.
          I thought: Death is a kind of miracle.

I thought: The lake swallows the sun and the night
swallowed my father and who am I to deny
                    that sometimes
life's desire is to lie down without desire,
                    for the sun does not cry,
                                    Oh Death! Death,
                                          when it slips under the water.

Copyright © 2005 Dale Kushner All rights reserved
from The Greensboro Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission