Issue 3:2 | Poetry | Catherine Emanuel
 |
The Send-Off
In
the small room
we
gather—
Sartre’s
sisters—
all
negatively charged,
dancing
around each other.
We
gather to see
our
father dead,
all
needing evidence,
a
waxy touch,
a
padded chest view,
something.
Silently,
we look on one another,
actresses
competing for
the
same role.
I
can’t muster tears;
I
drowned in them as a child.
And
we grew up tumbleweeds,
scattered
and tossed,
left
to search
like
mine-blown soldiers
for
parts.
We
are fragments all—
shattered
glass too
splintered
to merge.
Yet,
we’re here
within
contracting walls
to
inhale each other’s air.
We
stare
at
thick memories
condensing
to drips,
a
faucet in need of washer.
A
puddle, a puddle of puke.
that’s
what they found him in.
Drank
himself to death.
Baptized
us in ether.
Here
we are,
Another
mess to bury.
I
crave fresh earth smell.
I
long to hear the clod-
touching-coffin
thud.
As
I look to my mirror shard sides,
I
wonder
who’ll
throw dirt first.
