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The Milk Hours

for J.E.J., 1962–1993

and C.S.M.J., 2013–

We lived overlooking the walls overlooking the cemetery.

The cemetery is where my father remains. We walked

in the garden for what seemed like an hour but in reality must

have been days. Cattail, heartseed—these words mean nothing to me.

The room opens up into white and more white, sun outside

between steeples. I remember, now, the milk hours, leaning

over my daughter’s crib, dropping her ten, twelve pounds

into the limp arms of her mother. The suckling sound as I crashed

into sleep. My daughter, my father—his son. The wet grass

dew-speckled above him. His face grows vague and then vaguer.

From our porch I watch snow fall on bare firs. Why does it

matter now—what gun, what type. Bluesmoke rises. The chopped

copses glisten. Snowmelt smoothes the stone cuts of his name.