Reaching the Dead (poem)

Ever since your father died,
the shower drain has clogged
and unclogged and clogged again,
light bulbs have twisted in
and out of sockets, baseball
has made you cry and so
have boys. You’ve learned
to play the flute and you’ve learned
to earn your way. Nothing
seems wrong but nothing
seems right and you wonder
what your father has to do
with any of it. So you think
and you write and you want
to go back to sleep because
you’re too anxious, too indifferent
to take it seriously.
You’re tired. He’s been dead
for a long time and you’re not sure
you want to raise him
from his quiet.

But you must. Look: his hand
reaches and begs. If you take it,
you’ll learn to condense time
and trip on ghosts
without disturbing them.
Then with his hand in yours,
with his lifeline wedged
in youthful palm, you could tell him
what he’s missed. Take it.
You want to. He wants
to know. It’s not only the living
who want to reach the dead.