Baptism
Singing With the Dead) -->Cold wind.
Inside he sits like Buddha
I help my father
into the shower
with his good hand
he grips my arm for support.
on a plastic stool
and waits for me
to begin. I drench him
with warm water,
soap his head, his back,
the flabby stomach,
the private parts
private no more. I had not before seen my father's
nakedness, nor the changing
contour of his being,
his growing helplessness. His brown skin glistens
and I think of him
as a young man on the night
of my conception: Panting, capable, shining
with sweat and definition,
the soft hands of my mother
grasping his shoulders. I pat him dry,
he lets me dress him
in the white
hospital clothes,
oil his hair,
put him to bed
and forgive him.
All too familiar. Rings true to someone who's suffered a stroke.