—for my stepfather

An earthquake hits his nervous system, tectonic
plates in full break. He’s not particularly bothered.
I’ve lived a good life, he says—husband, father,
foreman at a small business. Now retired,
he lives beside a lake, sits on the deck to watch
herons bathe, cormorants take sputtered flight,
wings tapping ellipses. This is where
I’ll die, he says. It’s certainty, not speculation.
Not for him the doctors’ predictions—
weakness, wheelchair, food through a tube.
Not for him confinement or the doleful eyes
of his wife, who will have to keep this man
who defines freedom by his cigarettes
and beer, bow-hunting deer every autumn,
hiking the Appalachian Trail three times.
I have a plan, he says. Somehow, I’m the one
he tells. The details he spares, but it’s there,
a scent that comes like jasmine in a darkened
garden. He’s glad, and I’m glad for him,
thankful for this music made just for my ear.
I know he can do it. When the moon
splashes full on water, he’ll take a last look
at the silhouettes of every blooming thing.
The loons will announce the morning.