Moving Day

Hilltop, apple tree, broken
bench, damn you, weather, damn you

bears, damn the whole wide ringing
valley. My lost toboggan

staves and splinters through dry grass.
Shredded baseboards I will my father

entering institutional limbo
not to see.

I wheel him in a chair
through the blue kitchen (big

prep, big storage, big cold, he wants
to see everything, why am I afraid?)

into the private garden. I don’t suppose
that gate’s supposed to be unlatched like that—

We stare for a minute through the crack.

You might just pull that—
I smooth the shawl over his shoulder.
I could open the door.

We stare at the sliver of traffic and time.