Fuzzy muddled today. Dinner party last night. In some senses, the poem will explain. Oy.
Rises as usual, dragging dull lawns
into matte light, outlining bare branches
on maples, brittle sticks shifting in a
soundless breeze. A sparrow flits
past the front window, psychopomp
plump with official spring business.
I half-fill my body, light-headed as
last night’s alcohol etherizes in me,
lifting me up and pressing me down,
painting the spaces in my blood with
dank images of my dead father’s smug
smile: A hangover, m’dear. What if I
become a drunk, like him? What if, under
this woman skin, I'm my father's ghost?