Parkinson’s Disease

While spoon-feeding him with one hand 
she holds his hand with her other hand, 
or rather lets it rest on top of his,
which is permanently clenched shut. 
When he turns his head away, she reaches 
around and puts in the spoonful blind. 
He will not accept the next morsel
until he has completely chewed this one. 
His bright squint tells her he finds
the shrimp she has just put in delicious.
Next to the voice and touch of those we love, 
food may be our last pleasure on earth—
a man on death row takes his T-bone 
in small bites and swishes each sip
of the jug wine around in his mouth, 
tomorrow will be too late for them to jolt 
this supper out of him. She strokes
his head very slowly, as if to cheer up
each separate discomfited hair sticking up 
from its root in his stricken brain.
Standing behind him, she presses
her check to his, kisses his jowl,
and his eyes seem to stop seeing
and do nothing but emit light.
Could heaven be a time, after we are dead, 
of remembering the knowledge
flesh had from flesh? The flesh
of his face is hard, perhaps
from years spent facing down others
until they fell back, and harder
from years of being himself faced down
and falling back in his turn, and harder still 
from all the while frowning
and beaming and worrying and shouting 
and probably letting go in rages. 
His face softens into a kind
of quizzical wince, as if one
of the other animals were working at 
getting the knack of the human smile. 
When picking up a cookie he uses 
both thumbtips to grip it
and push it against an index finger 
to secure it so that he can lift it.
She takes him then to the bathroom, 
where she lowers his pants and removes
the wet diaper and holds the spout of the bottle
to his old penis until he pisses all he can,
then puts on the fresh diaper and pulls up his pants. 
When they come out, she is facing him, 
walking backwards in front of him 
and holding his hands, pulling him 
when he stops, reminding him to step 
when he forgets and starts to pitch forward. 
She is leading her old father into the future 
as far as they can go, and she is walking 
him back into her childhood, where she stood 
in bare feet on the toes of his shoes 
and they foxtrotted on this same rug.
I watch them closely: she could be teaching him 
the last steps that one day she may teach me.
At this moment, he glints and shines,
as if it will be only a small dislocation
for him to pass from this paradise into the next.