Thoughts on the Death of my Father
(Nappies
aren’t supposed to be for grown-ups.
Grief, not crusts, whips hair into curls.
He does his dying, is gone; still the nurse’s day
drags on.)
What if it had been my mother?
Image by Eduardo Sancinetti
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Faltering
Words build up in my throat, sticky like caramel, to choke me. The tension spreads to my face as the
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We used to climb the thorn trees when we were boys And annoy the weavers building their summer nests
