Wheatfield with Crows
The night my father dies, I search for him
in the painting over his bed.
Crows clutter the sky,
wings rattle my windows — the horizon crooked as a broken bone.
Lost in the wheat fields, I find Van Gogh
painting the countryside yellow and blue, he sings
aloud to drown the ringing in his ears.
Blackbirds bow in silence,
clacking crows hold their tongues. Van Gogh daubs the heavens
thick and thicker to obscure the uproar of red
poppies crowding him while the wheeling sky shouts to be heard.
Somewhere my father hears dust storms blow across the moon—
sunflowers choke the sky.