The candle burns alone
as a forgotten light in a heavy darkness,
painting shadows around ceramic saints and angels
placed upon my grandfather’s bedside table,
as final offerings for a lost ram never humbled by the shepherd.
I was not there when he died, but a silent prayer was said
by his wife of sixty-four years who knelt over the fresh corpse
with whom she had nine children, his sagging brown skin
the color of his horsehide belt used to beat his eldest sons
into submission.
Almost nothing remained of the stout, towering monster
of my father’s memories. Diminished by age, he became an invalid,
confined to his threadbare quilts hiding his bare feet from the
jagged concrete pavement of his bedroom. Only his tears betrayed
what little life he had, as a man who scorned all who loved him.