Old Trinity of Paseo

my father-in-law, steve,

is out buying clothes

since they’ve outgrown him.

steve is a few weeks

out of chemo and radiation

—throat cancer—

i’m on the back porch

smoking a cigar

in the dying light

of an oklahoma fall day,

a day flush with

hay bales, gas stations, casinos,

where we tried

to shut up some of the natives.

we are only visiting this place

for a brother’s second wedding

to a part choctaw woman

named lisa who tattooed

some of the freckles

on her shoulder

into a constellation

particular to the canvas

of her honey light skin.

i cut the ashed end of the cigar

and go inside to make coffee.

on the counter

i notice a styrofoam cup

labeled and underlined spit.

i turn right around,

stand back on the porch

and stare at the sky

through power lines.

i remember steve

before the science

trying to save him

hollowed him out,

how his back stretched as

broad, proud, flat

as oklahoma’s horizon,

how he fed himself

over the sink

through a tube

in his stomach,

how he told my children

he was an immortal robot

and strained a yellow smile,

how he felt

like a fleshy hanger

when i hugged him.

i haven’t heard steve

laugh at all

since coming to oklahoma.

and why would he?

god, why would he?