Departed Cordelia
        Cordelia. O you kind gods,
        Cure this great breach in his abused nature!
        Th' untun'd and jarring senses. O, wind up
        Of this child-changed father!
                        —William Shakespeare, The Tragedy of King Lear

My father said, You are a spirit. Where did you die?
and we were equally alive. I thought to correct him
but he was not in his perfect mind.

My answer, to myself: still, still, far wide,
wide of the mark, wide of this world and time.
My father said, You are a spirit. Where did you die?

and I kissed him as he slept, wild-haired, sliding
down in the chair. My kiss would be his medicine
if he was in his perfect mind.

We met again in prison, he and I. For a while
his memory cleared. I wept that he knew my name,
my father who'd raved, Spirit, where did you die?

From the beginning my heart held my words aside
and he sent me with France, to battle, to the storm.
He was not in his perfect mind.

I left forever. I'm dead as earth. I gravely
flowered, a rose in the rain, a dark bowl of flame.
My father said, You are a spirit. Where did you die?
but he was not in his perfect mind.

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Copyright © 2016 Katharine Whitcomb All rights reserved
from The Daughter's Almanac
The Backwaters Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission