I stroke his soft and scented feathers. * * * “Water,” groans Granddad, “Can’ do it . . . my . . . self.” He holds out freshly feathered arms—they crack when stretched to full length— “Can’ hol’ . . . a thing . . . ” With care I tip water into his crusty plunge of half-beak. His pink tongue moves in its dark trough, a dying worm in water. Wet slips through the mis-join between flesh and beak, dribbles down to make neck feathers wet. They shine like jet in butter-light. I want to touch them— “Granddad,” I whisper, “do you mind?” “Care . . . ful . . . They come . . . away . . . ” I touch the feathers of his neck. Softly one detaches, a sprig of fluff, a dandelion drift, held to spin in breathless air. “Sleep,” he says, “So tired.” I tape his eyes for him again. They’re larger now; glowing in dusk like setting suns. I sit by the bed, watching him sleep until I sleep myself. When he wakes, he leaves an ear upon his pillow. A bloodless nothing, a scrap of flesh. I keep it.
204 |
bsr