Whatever it is, however it comes, it takes time.
It can take all night.
My father would sit on the edge of the bed
and let the tears fall to the floor
the sun the size of the window, full
and rising. He was a dead man and he knew it.
I think of him every time I fall in love
how the heart is three-quarters high in the body.
—He could lift his own weight above his head.
—He could run a furrow straight by hand.
I think of him large in his dark house
hard in thought, taking his time.
But in fact he is sitting on the edge of the bed
and it is morning, my mother's arms around him.