SUBTRACTION ISN'T ALWAYS LESS
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In Subtraction Isn’t Always Less, Ann Hudson examines her father’s last several years living with idiopathic Parkinson’s Disease, his childhood which he re-participated in as a result of his Lewy body dementia, and his shifting presence as her father.
The poems consider his identity as a scientist, as well as the science of his increasing fragmentation. While a grievous loss, his death re-configures how his family understands and experiences him: an endearingly monolithic head of a family, an athlete, a musician, an expert in his field. Through a sharp and tender observation of landscapes both physical and emotional, along with a generous offering of data, curiosity, and awe, Hudson shows us how death might bring someone we love into a more precise and present focus. |
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My Father's Knees
All summer one caregiver or another pushes his wheelchair
to the duck pond so he can sit in the sun-dappled air. Who knows
what he watches: the occasional angler by the rocks, the thick leaves
of the magnolia, a chittering squirrel, cars on the adjacent road.
Summers ago he walked the perimeter, then shuffled,
then took it at an unsteady stagger with his walker,
and now he rolls as far as the path will allow. A wide brim
shades his face, sunglasses cut the glare, but his knees
tan to a burnished chestnut brown as glossy and warm
as the stereo cabinet he built one summer on the back patio
with his father, sawdust skittering over the flagstones
as they cut the walnut planks with the bandsaw,
waking my sister from her nap with its high whine.
We weren't allowed to touch the stereo, but years later,
after I'd watched him do it a thousand times,
and I was alone in the house, I held the needle as steadily
as I could above the spinning record, aiming to set
the needle down into the narrow, silent space.
All summer one caregiver or another pushes his wheelchair
to the duck pond so he can sit in the sun-dappled air. Who knows
what he watches: the occasional angler by the rocks, the thick leaves
of the magnolia, a chittering squirrel, cars on the adjacent road.
Summers ago he walked the perimeter, then shuffled,
then took it at an unsteady stagger with his walker,
and now he rolls as far as the path will allow. A wide brim
shades his face, sunglasses cut the glare, but his knees
tan to a burnished chestnut brown as glossy and warm
as the stereo cabinet he built one summer on the back patio
with his father, sawdust skittering over the flagstones
as they cut the walnut planks with the bandsaw,
waking my sister from her nap with its high whine.
We weren't allowed to touch the stereo, but years later,
after I'd watched him do it a thousand times,
and I was alone in the house, I held the needle as steadily
as I could above the spinning record, aiming to set
the needle down into the narrow, silent space.