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.