At your feet,
Curled up on the floor pillows, My spinal fluids carry the message – it’s safe. Half asleep 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.
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September 2023
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