Whenever we’re out of town, my wife,
just before bed, asks Where are we?
so she’s not confused if she wakes up
during the night. I answer Chicago,
the Smokies, wherever we are. She insists
we say everything three times, question
and answer, like a spell we’re casting
on our own minds. When we return, I say:
We’re home, we’re home, we’re home.
Sometimes, when I dream, I see nothing
but the green-leaved branches of a shimmering tree—
I want to believe every one of us is inside
something beautiful, that All will be well,
all will be well, and every kind of thing
shall be well. In 1937, my father, age 10,
stood in the alley behind his parents’ house,
wearing a flowered apron over dress pants
and a button-down shirt. He’s holding
a double-layered cake—round, frosted white.
There’s snow in the yard behind him;
a puddle in which his legs are reflected;
and, extending from the right side of his body,
a shadow—a word that can mean silhouette,
vestige, dusk. Or, as a verb, to follow, pursue,
keep an eye on—which is what my sister and I did—
kept an eye on our father the last six days
of his life, watching for signs: the mottling
of skin, the longer pauses between breaths.
Once, when the nurses repositioned him, his eyes
flashed open, like the eyelids of a plastic doll,
and closed just as suddenly. After he died,
we sang all five verses of Now the Day Is Over.
To myself I added: Where are you, where are you,
where are you. The apostles, in the Book of Acts,
use their shadows to heal the sick—miracles
employing the position of the sun, time of day.
My father died at 6:03 in the evening,
a Wednesday in May. Some days, this photo
is all I need. My father, age 10, and me,
casting my favorite spell.
–
Lisa Dordal teaches at Vanderbilt University and is the author of Mosaic of the Dark, a finalist for the 2019 Audre Lorde Award for Lesbian Poetry, Water Lessons (2022), and Next Time You Come Home (2023), all from Black Lawrence Press. Her poetry has appeared in The Sun, Narrative, Image, New Ohio Review, and Best New Poets.