The Last Photo with My Father
At the threshold of the sitting room
Standing
On the only stair that separates the door and the floor
The device snapped
The father, his amaranth red bubu
The son, his navy blue
The earth, its ocher twilight
And two flowers on the right
A door opens into the darkness
To the left
Between my father and me
Physical contact never meant affection
It’s sacred to touch the other
For him
Touch serves three verbs
To pray. To heal. To magnify.
In the last photo with my father
His hand on my back
Was therefore …
