My father’s body has become a crippled shrine,

a complex-compound formula misfiring.
Three times daily he takes up our offerings

of L-dopa laced through with regret —

not for falling ill but for all our missteps
and shuffling when in his prime.

For years, we spun in silence and insomnia.

Moon blind, my mother holds a gavel poised
above her bird-shaped prayers. One more

visit to his doctor and she’ll loose her swing,

bringing a judgment down on all our heads,
a flutter of bruised wings. Now, there’s no god

left in this universe to hear my confession.