In the shadows of the backyard,
swung vertical, on edge,
like a topsail puffed taut in a wind,
the hammock has unloaded a pillow,
half-glasses, and an autobiography.
They lie scattered at my father’s feet.
He died a year ago, strung
between retirement and the monitors
that told his family
the waiting was over.
Now his unblinkable bad eye
appears far less surprised
as I steady him on the lawn,
back him into the tricky hammock,
and relax with him, finally,
in a curve of canvass,
no longer the seat of my resentment.