Icarus Does the Dishes

It leaves a mark on me when I fall

in my father's kitchen.

Only a few days it's been

of lifting him up from one place,

then putting him down somewhere else,

then driving to work for the late shift

while a nurse looks after him

for five hours, three times a week—

all we can afford. There is no choice

sometimes, I have to leave him

alone. I ignore the soreness

of the bruise taking shape on my ass,

because these dishes won't clean themselves

and Father hasn't had his bath. It embarrasses us,

especially the rolling back of his foreskin,

the veins, tiny stitches on the inside

of a Minotaur's mask, so I let him wash that part

while I look away. He does not see me

this way, on the floor. I'm twenty-five

and agile, it is no accident, but

a tantrum. I throw the dishes.

All around me, shards; a constellation—

stars for which I have no names.

We are lost. What have I done,

I'm thinking now, in tell the hospital

I can do this; I can manage just fine.

In the next room, through the wall,

he asks me if I'm okay;

if I need him to do anything?

Please die, I whisper then sweep

the stars, turn back towards the sun

soaking in the gray water.

Source: Fantasia for the Man in Blue (Four Way Books, 2020)