BLURRING FACES

Father is a book

splayed open

spine broken

no gold leaf

or knowledge, learning

sufficient to stanch

the flow of blood

from sword to gut.

Margot.

Always dominant

in stature, presence, voice

Father is small and frail

a few breaths from his last.

Philippe is hunting.

He will return, bring help.

A single bandage

cannot help a man

torn limb from limb.

Your mother?

No time to obfuscate;

Father reads my face

like pages in the books

around us and just as useless.

He sobs, grief forcing

the sword still deeper.

I grab his hand as though

I can hold him here

for one last lesson.

The cool weight of his ring

our family crest

our legacy

powerless to protect us,

presses into my hand.

Helene?

This time I manage

an upturn of my mouth.

She’s alive, Papa.

She’s alive.