Alzheimer’s translation: Homophonic IV

Why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why.

—My memory of my father’s voice message

The moon is a flight risk
on foggy nights, goes senile
and sundowns.
Lost hiker trying
to find himself, buried alive
in the clouds’ brash ice.
Tracking device left
behind on his nightstand.
Tripwire at his bedside
triggered no siren.
Nothing stifled him: stars’
night lights, his doors
we disguised with blinds and knobs
with white cloth,
deadbolts placed high
out of his line of sight.
Then our haywire hide-and-seek.
We rifle through every brier
within 1.5 miles of the site
of his lighting out
into that kiteless gray matter
where he vibes like the ghost-
whine in an empty hive
or the cries at a spent bonfire.
(He’ll drift right, if right-handed.)
If found, remind him of the time.
Let him pace the sky for a while.
Until then, the night
cottons, the knot
tightens. Darkness knit
and misty-eyed.
Our erstwhile moonlit
gut piles and bite marks
and body-littered shorelines
at low tide are now wiped away
without his shine and I –
sigh – forgive me – the most
sublime silences arise.