When her father the old man died
I was called to witness, to say
Yes, he really seems dead, and I knew
we were entering another phase.
No more would he raise his hand to me
from the porch across the park.
No more asking what I knew, begging for a hug,
thanking me for pie.
Now I had to hide from his daughter
whenever she came dragging a branch
or box down the sidewalk,
orange scarf tied under her chin.
The way she screamed my name
like a horror movie.
I had to dash inside
as if I hadn’t heard, otherwise
doomed to many minutes of mad chat—
not one scrap of sense.
But I couldn’t stop leaving things on her porch,
as I had done with her father for years . . .
it was my habit,
never guessing she would think
they came from a spirit on the other side,
a hawk, or a bat. Antique spoons in a bundle,
nubbly vintage suit with golden buttons,
holy card with glowing heart of wings.
He’d always known this meant, I’m thinking of you.
But she thought—they’re watching,
I’m circled by eyes,
if I don’t drink pomegranate juice, I’m doomed!
