my father was taken
from me
too easily.
a soul once so loved
was plucked
from us,
still standing,
rapid as a rug.
it was citrus season
when it happened.
his coma left him
with a comma between my first
father and a frosty stranger.
dad's slumber softened in still freezing
february,
and he thirsted for oranges
only.
nurses promised fruit when
he could finally chew
properly.
I
too,
had to learn to chew
properly,
but even now
it is hard to swallow
modern medicine
marooned
him to an island
on his own where
he rarely
paddles back
with a visitor's
pass.
I've packed it
away
as best I can.
stacked in a suitcase
in my attic
of avoidance,
food for fruit flies
to fight for.
I've lost this war
and even oranges
have lost their allure
