Writing Equations

After the weeping ceases, the mind 
bangs like a moth against the windowpane of logic: 
what are the chances, after his body is torched, 
his ashes scattered, dust to dust,

my father will ring my doorbell? 
Resurrection: the word hides how it works, 
the way the sconce in our living room 
conceals a puzzle of tangled wires,

or like yards of purple entrails, I imagine, 
hidden by lovely skin. I was 13 when my father 
died; they told me resurrection was real, but not 
yet; later. And my physics teacher forgot