by Steve Sibra

up to the moment of his death
my father was breathing
he was pumping air in and out
even when sleeping

my mother had a touch
she had otters in her eyes
they swam in oceans of blue

years now they have been elsewhere
someplace beneath themselves
going about the business of worms
forgotten by all but plants and storms

as they dry and go to seed
as dirt fills in the spaces
which at one point were lives
laughter     movement     wisdom
others like me have been above
still filtering the air

still moistening an atmosphere
no longer of use to anyone
no longer drenching a universe
with meaning     no longer feeling

no longer feeding the dog
at four thirty each afternoon
whether he shows up to eat or not

Steve Sibra spent his youth on a small farm in North Central Montana, near the town of Big Sandy. His poetry and short fiction have appeared in numerous journals including Flint Hills Review, Chiron Review and Crab Fat Magazine. Steve’s full length book of poetry, Shoes for Baby, was published in 2022 by Swallow Publishing. He resides in Seattle.