After his first near-miss with death he drew himself;
reduced by one sense, his ears extinct, hidden behind
a black halo. One eye looks at himself, a taut unfelt
line from body to thought. The other eye is misaligned,

lowered by the weight of being watched, fearfully
re-alive. On a badge above his heart he signed
his name upside-down, the savant’s reminder pinned
to the idiot. The second time the nearness was finer,

Fate-crones near enough to hold the backcloth for
a self-portrait with doctor as a still-life prop,
propping him up gently in the bed I made not for
death but to approximate married life. You cannot

see me standing at the foot of the bed; a visitation
made see-through with exhaustion. I saw my father
dying behind the Señor’s death-mask face; Señor
saw in me all the women he formed with the fewest

possible strokes, each lovely face the same worded prayer
but with a different want. I just wanted him spared.