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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