Beach Walk by John Fitzpatrick
When my father went away,
he did not tell me he would draw
the water about him,
curl himself into the shell of a mollusk,
and turn his skin into alabaster.
He did not see me come to him
that winter morning he lay on the ocean shore,
his mouth to the sky,
his curved back bedded in debris.
Nor was he there
when I picked him up.
Published: Lake Effect