I loved feeding my dying father,
rigging him upright,
cocooning him in pillows
tapping the spoon
soft against his lips, waiting
for his bird mouth to open,
tipping in the dab of lemon pudding.
I tell you, he never coughed once,
not like in the hospital.
But home in the rented bed
in the dining room, I tended him
and my hands knew exactly
how to wipe his mouth,
sponge his teeth with the foam toothette,
chapstick his cracked lips.
The time for words had passed
and my father, who did not speak
to me for years, blinked
as he reached for my hand
raising the spoon to his lips,
his hand I knew
from earliest memory as fist,
as slap, as rasp
as he pulled off his belt.
I fed him, I tell you,
like I fed my own babies,
the answer to my long wondering
what could happen
if fear left the house.