Dowsing

Father, you did not wake one morning
to the aroma of freshly brewed tea
or mother’s vigorous prods and shakes.

Your body lay unresponsive and still,
tucked in a floral print bedspread.

We tried a crude version of CPR,
patched together from our memory
of watching Hollywood films,
and when it did not bring you back,
pounded on your sweaty chest
as though on a door refusing admittance.

The room filled with untimely birdsong.
A palm-leaf fan stirred the lank hair
that fell across the bridge
of your nose. Mother and I became

desperate treasure hunters that day
as we searched for a pulse
in the ruins of your wrist. We got
lucky, I guess. The dowsing rods

of our fingers stumbled upon
such a wealth of precious stones
we did not know what to do with them.