from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (32)
after dad died
I would wear his shirts
they were too large
for my adolescent body
.
thin wisps of skin
like spider’s silk
drift in the wind
.
each new mask adhered
to and was shaped by
the one that came before
.
my feet are numb now
as if on fire
.
as the ground slips away
I grasp for space
.
I don’t know how I got here
or where I’m coming from
I’m tired and out of breath
I need to sit down
.
when asked I don’t know
who I am or where
.
I think of my father
and how he died gasping
for air drowning in phlegm
.
and my collar grows tight
.
(February 24, 2020)
