Your father passed into thin air
two years ago today, left you treading
in salt water and frost.
It was before the fuses detonated
on pumpkins strewn like melancholy
babies in a rutted field.
I saw the lump in your throat, on
your chest, coached you into swallowing
some solid food.
Your father never left important places.
Waits for you to ask him what you need.
He will give it up.