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)
-- 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