It Was the Summer of Hard Tomatoes

sucking into themselves like I shied
inward when asked, How
is your father? like my father’s shoulders

 

collapsed toward his ribs.
I rubbed them softly
while mom magneted
Do Not Resuscitate

 

to the fridge. I learned
to sleep everywhere—plastic
chairs, a bench at the end
of his hospital bed,
even with the fourth of July
outside, helicopters daily
landing on the roof. I pulled

 

food into myself with a new
desperation—dark pudding with skin
on top, papery rice noodles,
fresh cherries until
I was sick. In the last days,

 

his mind went back
to work. He worried about the concrete
truck waiting, asked my mom to feed
his crew, fell asleep exhausted from
cleaning out the shop. I watched

 

his hands move in his sleep, his lips
fretting measurements. It’s OK, my mother said,
just let your father work.

---

Stacy Boe Miller is a poet and nonfiction writer living in northern Idaho. Her work can be found in Copper Nickel, Mid-American Review, Terrain, and other journals. She serves on the board of High Desert Journal and is the current Poet Laureate of Moscow, Idaho. Find more of her work at stacyboemiller.com.