I entered Ba’s room the exact time he exited a dream,
the recurrent one where he rowed a fishing boat
towards a bridge straight to heaven.

That morning, the moon cradled us like children
in a pond of pale light, not yet yellow, soft
as the flesh of a durian, as milk.

His eyes roamed the ceiling, the walls, settled on
the glow of my face. Those final hours. He could’ve
mistaken me for divinity, an apparition, a stranger,
anyone except for his daughter.

Clocks frozen, half past five. If only he could mutter
my name, scold me, praise me, finish a spoon of congee.
The nurse was gentle, said he was not hungry,
which meant he was dying.

His eyes opening, then shutting. Gloom slipping
in & out of consciousness. Clinging close, I washed
his face with a towel, combed his silver hair.

All the while he slept & slept, dreaming of a fishing boat.

I did not want my father to depart earth empty
so I placed a warm cup of milk by his mouth,
and heard the thump-thumping of 力,

the revival of heartbeat

the echo of strength

when he began swallowing, slowly, sip after sip
filling his belly, his soul
before journeying again off to sleep, off to sea.