my dad died two weeks ago and I searched
for a hawk I test my gut I kissed the
top of his urn like I kissed his dead
forehead in the moment after the feeling
of his skin under my lips chocked with
cooling sweat I stand in the middle of a
field and pretend to pray I chickened
out halfway to belief I reach out my
arms and pretend I can feel energy
pulsing in the wheat stalks I read my
horoscope and go back to work my sister
and I listen to the voicemails he left
us while we drive to the restaurant we
listen to the voicemails he left us he
left us I hear him in the crackle and
the static I wait for assurance I check
my stomach every hour for knowing his
funeral flowers have barely begun to
wilt that must be a sign there’s a storm
flashing low in the distance that must
be a sign the wind on the back of my
neck is warm and it must be a sign I
drink a rum and coke and call it tribute
instead of coping I touched the soft
belly of a raspberry and it feels just
like his lower lip as I fed him his
pills one by one just a few days before
I pluck each berry place them in my
bucket and they each should become a new
mouth a gallons worth of him dying again
and again I pick raspberries and smell
the breeze and wait for a sign there’s a
spider just like there has been a spider
every day nestled in between the
brambles hanging from the side mirror of
his old SUV dangling from dangling in
front of my face on the car ride home I
make believe my father is sending me
spiders I make belief I’m supposed to
feel something right I sneak into the
basement and search for him in the
rafters you know I looked it up and
cremation doesn’t actually produce ash
instead the skin and muscle burn away
entirely leaving just the weakened
skeleton which is thrown into a blender
crushed and returned to you my father
becomes the margarita
I want to order at the bar my father
becomes snow after he died the summer
was gone and all I can do is wait I walk
into his room and fold up his glasses
they creak like they are still expecting
a face his mother brings me a photograph
of him as a teenager and his mouth is
open wide with laughter and in this
moment
I am the one who doesn’t exist
—
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