After he died
my father’s eyes,
or to be more precise,
spent some time
refracting light in someone else’s orbit.
those eyes were functional enough.
They looked, they laughed, they charmed.
They even wept regret,
or so I’m told.
It was his feet that served him best,
this master of escape. His idea of obligation
was to drop by, on occasion.
Viewed from the longest focal length,
we rarely featured in his gaze.
In his eyes, our focus blurring,
in ours, brushed off, a stage, a phase.
Now those of us from whom
he always was estranged,
find ourselves absorbing light in someone else’s orbit.