print previewback ADAM CHILES
Shadow
In the dream last night, my father
rose from his chair and walked toward me.
How trim he looked, the weight he’d carried
near the end, gone. He pointed to the water
pooling at the carpet’s edge, explained
the necessities of plumbing; the pipes
burst from aging. Even the ceiling,
an intricate stain mapping the rain’s
abiding passage. The last time
I saw him, he and my mother waved as they
pulled away, car windows down, late summer
and the soft chill: a shadow already burning
on the underside of morning. 