The Ferryer

Three years after my father's death he goes back to work. Unemployed for twenty-five years, he's very glad to be taken on again, shows up on time, tireless worker. He sits in the prow of the boat, sweet cox, turned with his back to the carried. He is dead, but able to kneel upright, facing forward toward the other shore. Someone has closed his mouth, so he looks more comfortable, not thirsty or calling out, and his eyes are open, there under the iris the black line that appeared there in death. He is calm, he is happy to be hired, he's in business again, his new job is a joke between us and he loves to have a joke with me, he keeps a straight face. He waits, naked, ivory bow figurehead, ribs, nipples, lips, a gaunt tall man, and when I bring people and set them in the boat and push them off my father poles them across the river to the far bank. We don't speak, he knows that this is simply someone I want to get rid of, who makes me feel ugly and afraid. I do not say the way you did. He knows the labor and loves it. When I dump someone in he does not look back, he takes them straight to hell. He wants to work for me until I die. Then, he knows, I will come to him, get in his boat and be taken across, then hold out my broad hand to his, help him ashore, we will embrace like two who were never born, naked, not breathing then up to our chins we will pull the dark blanket of earth and rest together at the end of the working day.