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.