BY JAN HAAG
THE ORIGINS OF THE WORLD
6-28-97
As Father was making a long slow death,
with no teeth and no eyes,
and the sheets had to be changed
or rearranged from time to time,
I couldn't help but observe --
with fascination
as he became as skelatal
as an Indian Sadhu --
the nubbin
that had been his
"organ of generation "
and to think, pushing my thoughts
right up against that wall of stone
in my mind where I can think up to
but not beyond --
how, THAT, was where I
(and my brother and sister)
had come from,
a little tailed swimming thing
gestated in my mother's
"tummy"
(a
doctor had once let me
peer through an optic fiber at her
azalea
pink
and peach colored womb)
and born as
ME.
That little nubbin,
cold within the shrinking flesh
with a catheter
draining away the 80-to-90% of Father
that was water,
until his bones were almost as naked as his body,
visible, fragile, his beautiful skin turning to pale gold,
and only his hands
-- with his gold and emerald ring --
remaining as they had been: strong,
capable.
Copyright © 2000 Jan Haag
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Jan Haag may be reached via e-mail: jhaag@u.washington.edu
A Father's Death
Phillip Morton Smith
Pursuing Her Father
The Origins of the World
Gifts
India
Khajuraho
Lung-gom-pas
Nothing
TRAVEL STORIES ABOUT INDIA
The Wedding in Mahabaleshwar
Passing
Through Bodh Gaya.
XX Kaida, Tabla Covers
XXI Tukra, Tabla Covers
XXII Mukhra-Tukra-Chakradar
XXIII The Ten Thats
BY JAN HAAG