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Our mother used to say prayers
for our father’s temper, as though

it were a thing living separate from
the man, some volatile creature

that might be tamed with soft words
or clasped hands. And my brother

and I would imagine those prayers
rising up the chimney then bouncing off

the clouds. And God, with one ear tilted,
would hear the words like so many bees

humming in a hive. Meanwhile, on land,
down where prayers seemed – at least

to my brother and to me – like birds
breaking their necks on window glass,

we learned a prayer of watching
closely for the sudden twitching

of our father’s hands. And when,
years later, he was dying of emphysema,

we sat with him on the back porch
and watched follicles of pale light sifting

through the obelisks of corn stalks,
and studied the living funnels of dust

forming on the road
as our father gasped for air,

the claws of his hands
furious in his lap.