Poetry: Kitchen Light, by Jack J

pt. first
The softest glow I’ll ever know is that upon his back
the yellow crept so slow and reached
no further than his shoulder bones
the pupil light is given flight when he taps the cigarette
the kitchen is so bright and warm.
And outside. On the veranda.
Where he sits. Belly up.
it is not.

a pt.
and my father breathes in. And puffs out empty memories
and his back is illuminated by the incandescence
by the faded liveliness that is nourished further
when the kitchen continues to glow
and mother and sister are asleep
but the kindled flame – nursed in the kitchen pane
continues. On his back.
To weep.
So bright.

a pt.
and I walked up to his chair on the veranda
to grab a tea-cup I’d given to a guest
and my father drew back his breath
and it was sad then. So sad.
To witness all the words
he didn’t say.

a pt.
and he looks so deeply into the black
and his face escapes the kitchen glow
and his picking up of the beer bottle
is so solemn. So fearful. So slow.
A man who is half glowing-
one-part radiance
the sum of incandescence but who’s
face, and legs, and belly
are dark and do not gleam.
They scream like dead tree bark.
And are so dark.
So dark.

pt. last
it must have been then, must have been
that any glow inside him had gleamed
that any pupil of light had taken flight
(perhaps when life
had tapped him).
It must have been then, must have been,
so dark inside him then.