Back Porch
 
Before my father needed
an oxygen machine
to breathe
he would often sit
on the back porch
smoking
on summer nights
and I would join him
to talk about music
or the moon
as the sun went down
and the cicadas rattled
in the willow trees
 
If we sat there
long enough
darkness would fill
the backyard
until our bodies
disappeared
and the orange glow
of his cigarette
as he inhaled
became all that I could see
of him
 
as if his life
were only
that burning
 
and the ashes
scattered afterwards
into the grass

                                        (from Miracle Atlas​)