This County, Dimming

after “Shadow Country” (1927) by Yves Tanguy

Old hair tufts in the terra-cotta pots
of the waiting room, the same coarse grass
that sprouts from my father’s ears and nostrils
and collects under the razor when he bathes
before radiation, five days a week

for six weeks. I don’t want
his body to give up. Headless necks 
and stiff nipples: these misshapen planets, 
yellowgray tumors are his. 
The moon keeps coming back 

and of course the infinite physicians 
whisper, of course they do, hovering around 
the cancer wing like invaders in white coats. 
Their gossip sounds alien and hushed. I can hear
their ray guns warming up, see the laser target

etched on his shaved neck. Tell me more 
about solar flares. Let me take a picture 
of the zipper of staples sealing your neck. 
I always cringe at the flash. Come closer, 
there’s dirt under your nails. Let me clean them.