Thursday, November 6, 2014

Zara Raab

In his final hours,

as if in a fit of urban renewal,
my father falls in on himself,
the thin walls of an old house
under the black wrecking ball.
Time was, I recall, he
carried out the destruction,
working the ten-story crane
to detach just so the debris:
Not a sliver fell in the street.
No spit or wracking cough,
no lament: there's nothing of him
beyond the wreckage in the room.
Just the clock, a patient wife
to mark the time of death.

                         --Zara Raab


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