Two nights after my Dad died
an aurora borealis glazed its way
down the continent as far south as Florida,
causing widespread Facebook postings
of gauzy pastel ululations. New England
was overcast and drizzly, so we witnessed
nothing here. It would be easy to imagine
my Dad had something to do with this
phenomenon, but being a man of science
he would have scoffed and launched
into an impromptu riff on solar wind
and Van Allen belts. Proud and stubborn
to the end, he waited until we cleared
the room—the aides changing shift,
me fetching something from the fridge—
until he released a final exhale. It’s hard
to articulate his absence now, because
there is no such thing as perfect void,
he is streaming on by somehow, an ionic
river coursing through our still-struck
substance, complicating the newly
sullen, inexplicable vault of night.
–
Robbie Gamble (he/him) is the author of the chapbook A Can of Pinto Beans (Lily Poetry Review Press, 2022). His poems have appeared in ONE ART, On the Seawall, Post Road, Salamander, and The Sun. He divides his time between Boston and Vermont.