I see my father in the field
scraping the wheat as he floats.

I haven’t seen him in years
so at first I don’t notice
he’s become black fog, honestly
he could have always been.
It isn’t until he says this
is his body now I remember
fathers aren’t always the dark
a closed mouth holds like water.

Mine used to wear glasses
and ride his bike every morning.
He asks how I’ve been;
I don’t know how to respond;
I stare and say nothing.
The dark vapor that taught me
to shave and when to cry
shimmers and holds my gaze.
We stand for years in a field.