His death is hanging
on me like a scratchy
wool noose while I’m
standing on gravel
in the shade of a tree
covered by parasites
thriving, full flesh
green to the highest point
above which parrots in pairs
chase the dying
afternoon my daughter reaches out for
asking to go there
and there in babble
and all I can do is bend
to give her a dried leaf
and tell her don’t
put it in your mouth,
hurt the baby.