Luna Moth, Leigh Anne Couch

Luna Moth

To the end, my father's slow dying was rarely
corrupted by pain. Cared for exquisitely

through the hole in his arm, he settled into peace
and shuffled its paces through the house.

Remembering him works like a mechanism
engaged, a rehearsal of parts : a white grip

on the metal bar, his voice smeared
on tape, an unrolling cylinder,

the needle pump, click and flash
of four rolls of film

he took from the bed
he could not rise from:

Squared captives of sunlight—
what needed to be said at every slant

of day against the filthy buildings
peering through his window—

each photo signed at the bottom
by the bed's aluminum railing

and the plant at his side in a blast of light—
the sole point of clarity.