Chain

"A map to land where my body will die..."
                                                            - "Carry Me," Tyree Daye


My father looped his keys on his belt
and jangled them like change 
in his pocket. 

Every night, he walked the periphery
of our house, touching window locks,
door latches, turning off the lights.

In the morning he thumbed
a rosary of olive beads, counting
his way out of the wood.

He felt sure his saints would carry him 
when it was time; sure they would see 
his milky light unclouded by cataracts.