Note: this is a revision of my previous poem, 2 weeks in Mourning:

My dad died two weeks ago.

When I felt years younger.

Simply alive, then not alive. 

Both of us, in a way.


Alone in the ward, his final breath,

shared only with strangers,

joined in whispering ether,

of others, lost in sojourn.


A nightmare had me parked down below,

on the street, clawing at doors,

clamoring at bricks,

to climb to him.


My memories have changed

Each now newly stamped,

One by one,

A bloody red burn, smoking parchment,

a reaper’s hand, diligently thumbing through,

smashing that mark down,

each and every one of them, redefined,

Re.           Filed.


Soot in the fine grains of a thumbprint,

Like evidence,

A feeling that someone has tampered


Redefining each memory,

as they burn, and burn again,  

burn Me away, 

the Me you may have known,

now another to mourn,

in a tidy clasp of ashes,

like my father’s remains.




Different now,


Different now,

Hollow… no, not quite,

Every memory polluted,

Now I, Me/Re.           Filed. 

/ compromised / I’m


Stuttering, hunched, mumbling,

Half of me gone

A bitten tongue

No, I mean that, science means that

Half of who would be me

is gone.

Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *