I Imagine My Father’s Death

I imagine my father’s death. It is bigger

than a breadbox. It is bigger than a Ford

Escort, than a Zeppelin, black and vast

and slow moving, oozing over an Oklahoma

arena. It is bigger than any arena, than

Oklahoma. My father’s death is bigger

than a planet, bigger than the gravity

wells worlds make, that stars stir up after

implosion. It is bigger than all the stars.

It takes up all space, all dimension, all

that is or ever was. It hates everything

it isn’t. It makes new space, new matter

from all it is. My father’s death takes on

form and void and says, “Let there be light.”

And there is light. It says, “Let there be

worlds.” And there are worlds. It says,

“Let there be a garden and a man in it.”

And there is a man. The man is my father.

He looks around, marveling at this thing

his death has made, then sets out to find

someone, anyone, with whom to share it.