What We Talk About When We Talk About Dad Sleeping the Big Sleep

by Casey Flynn

in the words of Aristotle, mostly

me:

in a certain way he is awake,

no longer intoxicated

with the commotion and disturbance

of sunlight’s gaze.

you:

do you remember how he sank,

savoring the eyes partly open,

and watched the departing

projectiles, the fading contradictory reports?

me:

I do. He was so rapidly

infected by the colors of things,

a feverish phantasm possessed

by scanty cloud shapes.

you:

but no longer. day’s flow

gainsays bodies and their motion,

ending as it does

in standstill.

me:

true. do you think

after metamorphoses afterwards

a remnant of himself still immanent

remembers waking?

you:

I do.

me:

hmm.

you:

(nothing)

me:

what will you say

at the eulogy?

you:

this—

call him a genuine person

who is but a certain portion

of air in another portion

separated from impressions

in his integrity, the delirium

of chamber walls, the markings thereon

become black and disappear,

darkness excited by some other

brilliant slumber.