When my father disappeared,
He did not go into hiding.
In old age, he was infinite,
So where could he hide? No,
He went into his name, 
He went into his name, & into
The way two words keep house,
Each syllable swept clean
Again when you say them;
That’s how my father left,
And that’s how my father went
Out of his house, forever.
Imagine a house without words,
The family speechless for once
At the kitchen table & all night
A hard wind ruining
The mottled skin of plums
In the orchard, & no one
Lifting a finger to stop it.
But imagine no word for “house,”
Or wind in a bare place always,
And soon it will all disappear—
Brick, & stone, & wood—all three
Are wind when you can’t say
“House,” & know, anymore, what it is.
Say Father, then, to no one,
Or say my father was, himself,
A house, or say each word’s a house,
Some lit & some abandoned.
Then go one step further,
And say a name is a home,
As remote & as intimate.
Say home, then, or say, “I’ll
Never go home again,” or say,
Years later, with that baffled,
Ironic smile, “I’m on my way
Home,” or say, as he did not,
“I’m going into my name.”
Go further: take a chance, & say,
A name is intimate. Repeat all
The names you know, all
The names you’ve ever heard,
The living & the dead, the precise
Light snow of their syllables.
Say your own name, or say
A last name, say mine, say his,
Say a name so old & frayed
By common use it’s lost
All meaning now, & sounds
Like a house being swept out,
Like wind where there’s no house.
Say finally there is no way
To document this, or describe
The passing of a father, that
Faint scent of time, or how
He swore delicately, quickly
Against it without ever appearing
To hurry the ceremony of swearing.
And say, too, how you disliked
And loved him, how he stays up
All night now in two words,
How his worn out, infinite name
Outwits death when you say it.
And say finally how the things
He had to do for you
Humiliated him until
He could not get his breath, & say
How much they mattered, how
Necessary he was. And then,
Before sleep, admit, also,
That his name is nothing,
Light as three syllables,
Lighter than pain or art, lighter
Than history, & tell how two words,
That mean nothing to anyone
Else, once meant a world
To you; how sometimes, even you,
In the sweep of those syllables,
Wind, crushed bone, & ashes—
Begin to live again. 


 = Terry Lucas