close the window, my father said, because it might rain tonight

by Kenneth Godoy

how do I get right with god?
I asked this to my father but the wind
blew trash onto mile-level
and the red sun made us squint.
close the window, my father said,
because it might rain tonight.
he said this as if he knew
that was how it would be.

an awful silence yearned upon us then.
How do I talk to god? I asked him again,
but the road kept groaning under
mile-level and the wind broke
through our hair. close the window,
my father said with his eyes away:
your mother will get cold soon
and the rain will fall;
everything will change, kenny.

I knew then that it would rain and that my
father’s oldness began here before I could cry,
even before I could see it present
or be aware of its presence.

close the window, my father said again.
How do I get right with god? I wanted to ask,
but the rain began falling suddenly like silver fish
streaming and steaming down onto mile-level

with the seventh hell of july heat.

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Kenneth Godoy is a poet and photographer.

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Photography by Kenneth Godoy