I would go to the mall
in my white rental car,
and shop for a new heart for you,
father; choose lungs,
as strong and light
as parachutes.
I would purchase
the finest pair of wrists,
the fastest feet,
and legs as fleet
as a stag’s.
I would go
to the sleep dispenser
and find you dreams
blue and serene
as your favourite summer sky.
I’d buy you time.
But I’m home
from the land of malls,
and I’ve turned in
the rental car.
It’s just you and me
in the cold Sunday afternoon,
you gasping as the lamb
you thought your hands could hold
slips free; the mother bleating,
me not moving as quick
as you’d like
to shut the gate.

You urge me up the yard
the lamb’s black legs
in my fist, and I wonder
why it takes so long for you
to follow.
I learn later
you’re hardly able to walk it now,
but today you aimed
to pull the wool
over my eyes.