Back on the Farm
My father’s death was easy enough,
or so it appeared. Judy 8, 1964,
a hot summer night in the
doldrums of Cheyenne.
I’d camped out on our couch
in the living room. His last
venture into my parents’
bedroom a passing blur—
the only time in my 14 years that
I didn’t kiss him goodnight.
My mother’s shrill voice
shattered the early-hour silence—
Ward! Ward! she cried.
His snores, loud and grating
staccato blasts—
only inhales.
At 4AM I straddled his body,
pounded on his chest like they
did on Ben Casey. His pinched
brow tight across his livid face:
he looked confused.
Sixty years now and I still
wonder what dream pierced
his psyche that last evening.
Was he back on the farm with
his brother Francis, sipping
warm milk from the pail
under their cow, or had he
fallen into their pond, his
tight muscular body caught
on something in the depths—
his breath, a temple of air, held
until that last desperate gasp.