Son,
I found your father face down
in chrysanthemum.
Can’t stop seeing his bald head
the quarter moon
the blue sky.
Can’t stop the odor
trapped gophers
fried hair.
This is love, I tell myself
a dead father
finally dead. Forgive me, I didn’t cry,
didn’t bury him in a casket.
I placed a sheet over the rot
and watered with gasoline.
Lit the outline
of a sunflower, offered it
like a lamb.
