like an offering, silver and gold and black.
Decades ago, my father could lift a man-thick log
and heave it over a fence, neck muscles bulging.

Now eighty five, he's Mother's size, but bald.
He lifts the razor like a crane, underpowered
for such a weight, thin shoulder hinging slowly

toward the tray. I shove up from the chair,
too late. He's there, and turns his palm
to dump it on its side. And being that far there,

he cuts his eyes at me, a sign he'd like to turn.
I lift the bony shoulders and begin to twist,
reach down and turn the gaunt hips bruised

from shots, the knobby knees. He doesn't groan,
won't say a word, biting hard to swallow.
I touch . . . [Full Text of this Article]