You died undone in Florida—
beloved of the citrus wind for your floral
gown, the billow as you un-braided
from your long hair the color of faded
coral. He knows it was not your seaside coffin
made me the son of an orphan.

You left as pralines and cream;
you melting—sugar now—covering my unclean
hand again in old Edison Mall.
Tuesdays on granule sand, I play with your favorite shells,
(the only thing I can imagine is yours)
pretending your ossified, half-buried lore.

You left no trail, your tide-tight ritual,
like tank tracks through the jungle
or letters to your son in Vietnam
loose with the definition of fatherhood.
But I leave tracks as I walk the sand
that tell me there's nothing we could ever have understood