My father’s face

I saw my father’s face
in the box where he
was laid, and it contained
all of terror, all of wonder,
all of resistance to the
fate that was dressed as
salvation all his life.

And there it was carved on his
face for god, the mad sculptor,
to see, for this is his creation
made for this moment and
for his delight in seeing his
creature fall to this end, in a box,
in a cold shed, waiting for heaven
but looking into hell instead.