After Years Thinking About Dying

After Years Thinking About Dying

I search for my father in Paris. I look
for him in people drizzled by the rain.
In the apartment on Quai d’Anjou, David,
who is like a father, sits with his coffee
at the dining table. He sits in my mind,
and I hear him, like a memory, asking us
to go, and smoke, a cigar on the Seine.
I search for Hemingway and for Pound.
Search for Steine and Ford and Picasso,
rain falling on Rue de l'Odéon. I search
for Howard, who is also like a father,
in cathedrals. I search for him, like I do
for God—that is, constantly. A priest,
another Father, sings over communion.
God like a ghost, like an apparition—
my Heavenly Father’s hands rest soft
on my head, voice echoing in my ear.
Love washes over me and fills me up.
My fathers, in Paris, all sing of miracles.
And what a miracle, O God, I am here.
What a miracle, my resurrection. Moss
growing abundant on the stone walls
of the Seine. And me, a grateful witness.