At your feet,
Curled up on the floor pillows,
My spinal fluids carry the message – it’s safe.
The smell of sweet tobacco
Drifts over me in our opium den, yours and mine.
A storm rages around the corner,
Outside, the smell of fuselage
Threatens this dream of peace with endings.
In my room are the empty boxes
Hungry for my doll whose hair I cut away --
For there is no turning back.
Your slippers watch “Mutiny on the Bounty,”
Loyal pets beside your reclining chair,
Their parallel-ness is my lifeline.
I pound to be let back in,
From the world, I can’t control,
But the air is cold and hard -- you’re gone.
Through a hole in the fog of my breath on the window
Our den is a home for mice --
Only your tobacco pouch remains in my pocket.
Remembering my father.