Words in Supper

Over supper, dad speaks of leaving
one’s body on earth when he dies.
I glance at bread, my palm that lies
in lines; the coffee ripples as if believing

a statement it tries to solve in brown broth.
Words vaporize between us: this staunch
man I’ve loved for years, and the paunch
he developed digesting truths and wrath

from a boy. I bow my head, noting moon orbits
around his eyes, asteroids of storms and ages.
A sip – the coffee, cooled, like all beverages
simmer with time as ruminations absorb it.

The man raises a hand to pat my head, crinkles
the way I often do in photos, minus the wrinkles.