Yesterday when I stood before him, he spoke my name
Today, I still stand, but the floorboards are cold
and he no longer knows the color of my eyes.
With each spoonful of the steaming grey I lift my arms,
Up, then down, again and again, a repeated motion – weeping,
My arms are trembling with the weight of the spoon
that holds in its cupped womb my raw, injured soul.
Father, I say, in a voice cold from straining not to break
I prod away the soup dribbling down his chin, gently.
The wrinkled hands are limp at his sides, lost.
What should be mad and free is caged within me; fluttering
feebly, thumping about in a circle of broken pieces
The look in his blank eyes has labeled me a stranger
But when they are closed my name is written on his face.