As a girl, I used to listen to my father
vocalizing in the curve of the piano, balancing
lightly on his toes.
I’d crouch below and push
the soft-pedal to temper the music,
his scales like a trail through the wood
guiding me to a splendid morning glory.
And now he can't even hum
my daughter lullabies. So I sing
off tune to him and can't contain
my tears as he keels left and right
to sway in time with the song
Numi, numi yaldati, Numi, numi, nim.
Bound to his drum legs
he is sleeping sitting up,
he is sleeping before
the evening shadows.
“Morning Glory: Parkinsons” was printed in Tracks, No. 9 of Inwood Indiana. Pick up the paperback from Prolific Press; the stories and poems published online are free to read here.
Get the paperback
