I sift through the last-recent pictures of him, 
listen to his one remaining voice mail. 
Hello, it’s your Dad. I’m doing just great. 
No problems whatsoever.

I like hearing that. I suppose now, it’s true.
I’m sure he keeps counsel with his favorite 
cold war space race physicists at some marble-
topped table in heaven, the holy trinity in attendance.
His parents and sister there too. 

A month before we lost him, he was worried about losing her. 
When the time comes, will you drive me to her funeral? 
Absolutely I would have, but he didn’t make it. 
And she couldn’t make it to his.

This Father’s Day week, I thrilled at the Strawberry Moon
with Mercury, Jupiter, Mars all in tow. Even Venus joined
the party. The night sky is the love language I learned from 
my dad. I remember standing barefoot in crabgrass, scarcely 
knee-high to a June Bug, constellations wheeling above us, 
as he pointed out stars, taught me the planets, conditioned 
me to swoon over lunar events. 

The moon vanished the weekend we buried him,
slipped away into Earth’s shadow as I facetimed 
his twin sisters, one wrapped in the bedsheets she’d
never again leave. 

They watch me now as I write, he and my aunt --
a pair of cardinals (if legends hold true) appearing each dawn – 
wings a brilliant Mars red, eyes mercurial dark.
I do my best to reassure him. 

Hello, it’s your daughter. I’m doing just great. 
No problems whatsoever.