Ars Poetica
The voice on the other end of the line
was a frightening echo of my own, my
mirrored reflection in a crowded room
where glimpses are all you need.
The echo asked for Dad, by the wrong
name, the wrong age, but it was not
the echo’s mistake.
I struggled with the lock on my bedroom door
that I had never learned how to use.
In their bedroom I heard Mom struggle too,
with words she had never learned how to use.
After the locks and words had served
their purpose, I left my room, every floorboard
sweating beneath my slow, bare feet.
My glasses forgotten beneath my bed, all I saw
of Dad descending those carpeted steps for
the very last time was unremarkable hair and flesh,
no eyes pointed in any direction at all.
