Calling the priest, soft and white as meringue,
to my father’s room, I asked for only a blessing 

explaining, who knows, maybe the nuns
had baptized him at the orphanage 

but he never went to church.
I remember a white cassock and the muted 

tap of wood rosary beads, but maybe not.
As if not hearing me—or hearing me— 

the priest reached one plump hand over the bed
By this holy unction and his own most 

gracious mercy, may the Lord pardon
my father, holding my hand, his eyes on mine,

same as the day I was born.
When the priest finished, 

with what strength the dying have
my father raised my hand in his and said, 

“Behave!” his parting blessing.
When he died, the proprietress set a candle 

by the bed where I sat 2 hours 
as grief laid down its sickening pall 

displacing relatedness with memory,
father and daughter cascading 

the way flower petals fade and fall
and still finitude did not seem

unreasonable in the strange peace
of the ever-bluing room

the candle flame flickering
in little gasps of joy

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