The Sand Hill Review               http://www.sandhillreview.org 2011

Pantoum for My Father

My father sits in a small room.

No, he is dead now. He sat

in a chair all day, hardly moving,

moving being so hard. But in my mind –

No. He is dead now. I sit

thinking of him in that small room –

moving being so hard – but in my mind

he still sits in the ever smaller cage of himself.

Thinking of him caged in that small room,

I sit in a little room at work

and he still sits in the ever smaller cage of himself

trapped in my sorrow: I won’t let him die.

I sit in a little room at work

looking out at treetops – I could be him.

Trapped in my sorrow, I won’t let him die.

I see myself growing smaller and less and less able,

looking out at treetops. I could be him;

it’s hard to remember I’m not – not yet.

I see myself growing smaller, less and less able

to take a step, to shave, to brush my teeth.

It’s hard to remember I’m not yet –

may never be him. For him it’s over, the struggle

to take a step, to shave, to brush his teeth –

but I wish he’d taught me more about standing upright.

I may never be him. For him it’s over, the struggle

he fought so gracefully. But he kept his strength to himself;

I wish he’d taught me more about standing upright.

I was always afraid he would fall.

He fought so gracefully, keeping his strength to himself,

I needn’t have worried about propping him up

but I was always afraid – what if he fell

and shrank like a leaf and skittered away?

I don’t know now if I was propping him up

or just hanging on. In the end he fell and fell.

But in my mind, moving being so hard,

not moving, in a chair all day

he sat. Though he is dead now

my father sits in a small room.

Patrick Daly