A denim-clad leg,

sometimes a bare arm, pokes

through a forced door opening. Bare

feet caught once or twice. Her leisure

suit left unzipped for time.

This is the first fight I ever witness.

My father, sweaty, lifts her into the hall-fight

still in her. The apartment, a sonic orb

of vibration. I have little

emotional connection to that summer

without my mother. Did I also cry?

Did my brother? I can't

see. Trophies: photos. In one, my brother

and I sat at the kitchen table,

an orange-frosted birthday

cake before us. Homemade

by my father, orange zest

in cake and icing sticks

to the roof of my mouth. Hated. Smile

for the camera. I wave.

We drive in silence.

The nurse calls for him and I

follow with his black, woven fedora

in my left hand and a baggie

of medications in my right. Notepad

and pen under my arm. Hands

full when he falters; tired

in ten paces, leading

with his left shoulder

into the wall. I talk

with his doctors. Daddy watches

while I write. We visit

the physical therapist, the nutritionist,

the gastroenterologist, the urologist,

the podiatrist, and the primary care physician.

He is no longer strong.

There are no miracles in pill bottles; yet,

we count them daily.

I see this fight, too.