to visit my father, i disinfect
my hands. fingers made colder
by alcohol. a tube clings tight

in his windpipe. there is no room
for affections, only elbows parting ribs,
laughter. to make room for myself,

i place a pillow between back and bed, prop
his body up. he looks past me to light
filling the far left corner and i follow

his gaze. the dust catches
fire; we watch as it burns
into the white wall. i stay

and it is enough for the dust
to form a thin layer, warm
and indistinguishable from ash.