Three years after my father's death <br />he goes back to work. Unemployed <br />for twenty-five years, he's very glad <br />to be taken on again, shows up <br />on time, tireless worker. He sits <br />in the prow of the boat, sweet cox, turned <br />with his back to the carried. He is dead, but able <br />to kneel upright, facing forward <br />toward the other shore. Someone has closed <br />his mouth, so he looks more comfortable, not <br />thirsty or calling out, and his eyes <br />are open, there under the iris the black <br />line that appeared there in death. He is calm, <br />he is happy to be hired, he's in business again, <br />his new job is a joke between us and he <br />loves to have a joke with me, he keeps <br />a straight face. He waits, naked, <br />ivory bow figurehead, <br />ribs, nipples, lips, a gaunt <br />tall man, and when I bring people <br />and set them in the boat and push them off <br />my father poles them across the river <br />to the far bank. We don't speak, <br />he knows that this is simply someone <br />I want to get rid of, who makes me feel <br />ugly and afraid. I do not say <br />the way you did. He knows the labor <br />and loves it. When I dump someone in <br />he does not look back, he takes them straight <br />to hell. He wants to work for me <br />until I die. Then, he knows, I will <br />come to him, get in his boat <br />and be taken across, then hold out my broad <br />hand to his, help him ashore, we will <br />embrace like two who were never born, <br />naked, not breathing then up to our chins we will <br />pull the dark blanket of earth and <br />rest together at the end of the working day.<br /><br />Sharon Olds<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-ferryer/
