On Sundays You made us kids’ lunch.

A ploughman’s feast, You’d say –

built from the carcasses of

our Monday-through-Friday lunchboxes.

Bologna, some cheese, and an odd

bachelor carrot for our eyes. All

the better to see you with, You’d tease. 
This cold array wound across the plate,

tracing Your brimming anxiety about

the unpaid power bill to the edge of my lips.

This still tasted like Dad put his back into it.
In 2023, as i deployed once more, i asked

You not to tell mom what I’d report:

hoping that my next war would go by

without fear dribbling into her AM coffee. 
When i did call You, that December, the secret

kept from me was cancer. It had broken Your

spine, and declared its intent to project itself

through flesh to Your liver, stomach, and brain.

You told me not to come home. You’d see me
                              again.
And almost a year later, before You felt

mom’s lips on Your forehead that last time,

i went to see You in the thrumming silence

of the ICU. You didn’t recognize me at first,

but wept all the same as the doctor whispered

of a desperate noose fashioned from the oxygen

cords. Your attempt at one last act of agency. 
i held Your hand, and the air between us

sagged into quiet as Your excruciatingly

small palm collapsed itself into mine.
Dad, as i tried to will away the trembling

You must have felt, i thought about how

the house lights would go out back then,

and remembered a stillness i enjoyed.

When i knew You would find a way
              to turn them back on.