JANUARY 1, 2012-- Prose Poem

JANUARY 1, 2012

I explain to my father the random chance of his death. Just like an ivory die that he throws on the floor; #3 is for additional seizures after his brain surgery, #5 is for broken front teeth from diabetes… I said, “You may die within three years, you know?” He keeps flapping yesterday’s newspaper because his tears blur out an article about a comet—Even after a star dies, it may linger as a white dwarf— I hear the clatter of dishes and silverware. I push his wheelchair into the dining room. The die rolls into a corner of the room. Silken layers of stardust cover it. He scoops egg-drop soup into his mouth.