I combed my hair
in the last row of graves
before my father's.
I caught my breath
after the long climb.
Below me the statues
glittered like wheat.
Angels, cenotaphs,
stones worn to a gleam,
a scrim where you might trace
the arc of a number
or the inner groove
where a prayer was erased.
Whom have I
in Heaven but thee?
The city of the dead
has it's own distractions;
birdsong, a faint bell,
a jet slowly vanishing
over Canada, leaving a white scar.
I knelt and practiced
seeking mercy from a slab
scored with the word FATHER.