Four Poems for My Dead Father




Toe



Your toe, the left one,
the one that is uncovered,
is aggressively white
and round and frail
(like a lonely sentry or a slightly cracked egg),
both asserting itself
as an ersatz you
and acquiescing in defeat
on a field of battle
strewn with gray bodies,
wrinkled sheets,
dirty bandages, and
stained hopes.




Bowl



Your long nose and big ears
are suspended,
like a hesitant butterfly,
above the dented bowl,
as you contemplate,
with empty eyes and fork in fingers,
the scrambled eggs,
the bacon,
the mashed potatoes,
the dentures.




Skin



Your jaw is too square
and your lips are too wide.
You look like you might have looked
twenty years ago
had you been thin,
which you were not,
and had your skin
not felt like cold wax,
which, at this point in frozen time,
it does.




Box



There is the box
and there is the hole
and between the two
is a narrow space
that keeps the box
precariously suspended
in exceedingly thin air,
until, inexorably,
the space disappears,
as does the box.




About the Artist:

I am a writer, painter, and professor. My artwork is represented by The
Tori Collection. My novels include Flippancy, Whiskey Priest, and Who
Killed Andrei Warhol. I teach at Rutgers-Newark and live in NYC.