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Grapes

Father, I brought you these grapes,
sweet as the imaginary ones
I traipsed on as a child
when you lay on your firm bed,
and I stood on the two small domes
where your wings would have sprouted.
Together, we made wine from your sour spine
and drank til our heads were light.
I pushed each sigh from your body,
balancing myself as I did
when I walked on top of the stone fence
surrounding our house,
the glass brick windows
laid thick around the front door,
and the cracked stone walls, dense
and squat as mountains;
I thought we lived in a fortress
until one day we came home
and the back door was ajar,
and your face turned to stone,
the weight setting in your jaw.
Father, take these grapes into your mouth,
soft and purple as bruises,
and spit out the seeds
as if nothing were lost.

Jimmy Lo

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