Renee Kalagayan
My Papa’s voice made a bicep of his tongue. His tenor notes
bright stars in the Florence sky. A pearl
in my palm. Papa was
a singer until he could no longer hear the notes.
I’m with him in the middle of March, and Papa
puts on his Christmas with Glen Campbell CD
because he cannot bear the silence. I migrate to the kitchen
and Campbell croons,
a distant bell is ringing, what is left of Papa
trailing behind me like a lost child.
He sits like a stone in a dining chair
he’s pulled with difficulty into the kitchen. He says nothing,
laughs when I laugh because I am laughing.
Hugs me before bedtime and grips my arms
harder than before. Recollects to me
cherry ice cream on the couch. Buttered rice on the gas stove.
The scent of my hair. How I take my coffee.
What he fears he’ll forget—yellowhammer song, sprig of my night-
colored hair against his leathered palm.
He touches me like I will shatter.
He is trying to hold moments in his hands.