14/15 poem


My dad, once every several years, finds himself
reminiscing on the days when my adolescent
self was obsessed with death, asking over and over
for him to take me to the cemetery until he finally
did and my body became a walking pillar of ice,
and during this telling I wonder if he remembers
the time when I was five and he was struggling
to fix something in the car engine and I pointed
to something he can’t now recall, telling him,
there, there. To this day neither of us knows how
I knew, nor who may have whispered to me from
somewhere I’d one day learn to fear, and fear, until
I didn’t, and don’t, and now whisper back to whenever
strapping myself into a rising plane, eyes fixed through
the window, waiting for the white blindness, the swarm
of clouds cloaking us all in its throat.


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