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My Father’s Death Room

Gone the old ogre jaw,

the wide churn of brow, his face,

smooth, petal-like, helpless

as a newborn.


I straighten the fallen

head, wipe a trace

of leprous spittle from his cheek.

My mother hoots, The dead don’t

need straightening, yanks

the pillow, so his teeth smash

the cot’s metal bars.


Then she rips the sheet from under him

like some kind of professional.

He pops and seizes

as if taken by a devil.


She shoves my shoulders

out the door, flips the switch

like a whip. But I turn back,

stare at the dark.


My father loved me,

but he failed at loving me.

I want to feel him, finally,

as he escapes.


And for a moment,

there he is—a gluey thickness,

a fermented tang in the air.

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