​POETRY  

"In Guadeloupe, our last trip,
you were worn out after we’d driven
and fought all day."
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Dad's Death  *
by Dan Liberthson

​​1
 
When the agonal breaths stopped
you let go a last sigh
as your lungs gave up
and a tear rolled down your cheek
leaving a trail slick as a snail’s.
Your eyes were closed
so I did something I’d never have dared
while you lived. I put my thumb
gently on one eyelid and my middle finger
on the other, as if playing
a soft minor chord.
Like a blind man,
I felt for a sign with my fingertips
since you’d left no last words.
 
Neither of us ever believed
in anything but our lives
and I, shadowed by your myth,
often barely that. But now,
feeling those cool, tough orbs
lack the least flutter,
I needed some message
and closed my own eyes
the better to see
where you might be
 
2
 
In Guadeloupe, our last trip,
you were worn out after we’d driven
and fought all day. We argued
from habit and for sport
but on that trip no longer could we
pretend the game was fun.
Like rival caged birds,
we had at last drawn blood.
At sundown we sat
across a cafe table
and I could see your toughness
had worn thin and brittle—you were
a hollow stalk waiting for the wind.
 
 
A small black sparrow perched warily
on your plate and begged for crumbs.
You tried to whistle but only blew,
a low, failing breeze. The bird took off
and your head slowly turned to follow,
barely keeping pace, eyes large
and pale blue behind thick lenses.
In that instant I first knew
you were going, you would be gone.
 
And I wanted to say
tell me Dad, now before you go,
who you are, who you think I might be.
But I’d never said anything like that,
so how could I say it then?
The sparrow flew back as you studied
an old dog dozing in shade.
The bird cheeped and you shifted your gaze,
smiled a bit, and pushed him a crumb.
 
3
 
Your eyes still told nothing
except that you were gone.
I stroked your cheek
and felt the wet of a tear.
As I turned away, it left
your last message--
something I could feel,
not see or hear.
 
I brought my fingers
to my tongue
and tasted salt,
yours and mine.

*  Author's Note:  Previously published in the book A Family Album (2006) by Dan Liberthson and revised for this submission.

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​​Dan Liberthson was born in Rochester, New York and attended Northwestern University and SUNY at Buffalo (PhD, English). He has retired from a career as a medical writer, and lives in San Francisco and Cottage Grove, Oregon. He has published five books of poetry and has published individual poems in anthologies and journals, including The Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, South Coast Poetry Journal, Elysian Fields Quarterly, Chaminade Literary Review and Triggerfish. He was Secretary of the Oregon Poetry Association (2019-2022), and took second place in the William Stafford Memorial Award Poetry Contest (2020) and the Maine Poets Society Contest (2022). He also published The Bluejay Contrivance, a spy novel, and The Golden Spider, a middle-grade fantasy novel. For more information, visit liberthson.com.

Other works in this issue:
Poetry:
​Lost Lakes
Dad Eats a Hardboiled Egg

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