My father enters heaven,

smiling his big smile, the one that could have signaled pain.

Let’s get you hooked up, they say. The place buzzes with sexy uniforms.

Dialysis unit. He reclines in a fluffy chair. It’s pumping beer through his veins.

My mouth is still dry from dying! he says. They pour into him 

with a plastic watering can. He grows 

to the size of his prime, thickening hair and brightening eyes. 

Grouse fly before him, and he shoots. They drop to earth.

He never gets up. Grimaces making his long, sighing, forlorn noise

I can’t understand.

K.I. Press is a writer originally from Alberta who now lives in Winnipeg. She teaches Creative Writing at Red River College. Her three books of poetry are Pale Red Footprints (Pedlar Press), Spine (Gaspereau Press) and Types of Canadian Women (Gaspereau Press).