Homecoming

When everyone has gone, while the clouds still
argue loud with the stars, I sit near him,
wipe his shoulders, dip my hand in the small
of his back, unbutton the pump, the drainage.
I unwrap the blue robe, like candy. Scent
of moldered covers pours on the floor, I
rise over my father, lunate, plant bulbs
in his eye sockets, winnow heart from lungs.

I groom him for Shahrazad, who’s waiting.
Irises, tulips are sprouting. Patiently
holding to his spine, I shake the branches,
pluck arms, legs, the tongue, his penis. I lift
his chest; the latches fall as I open
the shutters. Splayed, his pelvis fills with leaves.