Shaking, seeming to wretch

Shaking, seeming to wretch

he holds the edges of the basin

leaning into it. Tears streak

his face and every now and then

he wipes them off with the back

of his right hand. Now, for a

moment he stands tall

opening his mouth seeming

to gulp at air only to be

shaken again by these spasms

wracking his body.

He spits into the sink

and the spittle is red and clumpy,

blood mixed with snot.

Somehow he manages to gather

himself, washing putrescence

down the sink, shaving his

neck and again coughing.

He combs his hair,

blows his nose into a tissue

and throws the red stained

rag into a bin, wipes his

face again and rinses

out the sink.

He walks into the living

room and sits in a chair

before the fire, resting.

Slowly, after a time,

he rises, body now and then

wracked by spasms that,

with his hand over his mouth,

he tries to control.

In the kitchen he pours

steaming tea into a mug

and gulps at the hot liquid

as if it were a cup of cold water.

January creeps slowly

into my father’s lungs

and every morning he

courageously tries to cough

it out, warmed by an artificial

August burning in wood.

This time I don’t know

if January will every go away

again for him.

He removes the handkerchief from his

mouth, looks at me, and tries a smile.