Manic - A Book of Poetry

Dad

Dad

Staring at your urn all I can think is how human remains

look like cocaine.  Or so I was told.  I think to test it.

Pry open the urn but I’m afraid nothing will be inside

and maybe this is all one sick joke.  You’re living alone,

always alone, God I hate that you were alone

when you toppled over, a leaning tower of destruction.

I’ll stitch you together, like I made father’s day cards but

glue can’t stick to ashes.  Maybe you’re in hiding and

at my wedding you’ll reappear to walk me down the aisle

and I miss your scent and embrace and my ignorance

because there’s no such thing as angels or demons only

you.  Alone with drugs that look like ashes and fear that tastes

like Dr. Pepper and days spent mini golfing.  You win, I

keep the score cards and your bandana but it’s not you.

It’s not flannel shirts and eggs with mayonnaise and who

will offer me a pickle with every meal and call me

linda consentida, mi corazon, mi hijita?  I can’t remember

what your hands look like.  God, maybe I can fit in the urn

and do all human remains look the same?  Can I pick out

your self-hatred like coal in sand?  Or was that burned

in the crematorium as well?  Your life was a flame.

Not calm and lovely but a wild fire decimating everything,

especially you.  I’ve heard that after a wild fire the earth

is ripe for growth and although the landscape has been

forever scorched flowers will bud so now I live

in waiting for Spring to replinish what this inferno stole.