The great-great aunt plays dead
When he tries to pull the gold tooth
Out of her mouth. Not a pursing
Of the eyes. Not a sound when
He finally yanks the tooth out
From root. Who knows how much
Blood bled. Most things will never
Have answers. For example, why
Exactly Father perfectly developed
Camptocormia, his right-angled
Walk down the hall to answer
Mother’s frustrated call. Her
Refusal to help him with the cane
Or walker. Just get to the damn
Table, she most probably thought
In her own language. Armenian
Is not easy to translate when
You love someone who never
Told you their secrets. It remains
A question of the pharynx, how
Much was swallowed instead
Of spoken. A throat can become
Sand dune. If enough circulation
Or wind rules the surroundings
Anything can move. Even that
Vertebrae that we thought
Damaged for good could bring
Itself back to stand at pier’s edge.
Father, what were you looking
For at the end of your life? What
Made you think the rug, the tile
Had answers? The phonology
Of being bent seemed fair.
Avoidance began to sing. I, too,
do this all to avoid the thought:
That if you looked any of us
In the eyes, something might
Extract itself, even violently.
Even your death would suddenly
Be pronounceable and alive.
