The Silent Garden
Michael Passafiume

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And you keep thinking
about your father—
yes, yes, the drunken nights,
too numerous to count,
the faulty pin that didn’t
always prevent his anger
from detonating,
cigarettes smoked with a zeal
he was too ashamed to exhibit
toward anything or anyone else,
sadness & confusion
behind that smokescreen, as if
—like the rest of us—
he’d inherited a fistful of keys
& not been told which doors
they opened, which they locked,
or if they even existed.

But the man could grow a garden,
weather and wildlife permitting,
each season bringing
fava beans, plum tomatoes, hot peppers,
so much basil & mint you couldn’t
give it all away.

And he appreciated a good laugh,
eyes tearing, dentures threatening
to launch themselves into orbit.
And he could watch television
like a pro—John Wayne & Clint Eastwood
movies, Hawaii Five-O, Mission: Impossible,
Taxi, Barney Miller, hour after hour
of CNN, and the occasional Yankees game
thrown in for good measure—
until the night & its subsequent
nightmares came for him,
sheets twisted by writhing legs,
moans loud enough to wake you
from your own tortured slumber.

And later, after all the warning signs
& doctors’ proclamations had
been ignored,
the cancer came for him too,
& there was nothing left to do
but wait in silence, hours creaking by
like a pair of arthritic knees
attempting to summit Everest—
so much silence,
so many unspoken truths
you couldn’t give them
all away.