Sleeping In My Father's Bed

He is resting in peace 

at Mather & Hodge

while I inch my toes

into the cool recesses

of Dad’s bedsheets.

 I am assigned the teak

 bed of the newly

 dead.

His window opens 

to the night garden 

deep green and black.

An utterly different view;

my childhood bedroom 

gazed upon the public

front yard, the wide 

asphalt driveway

the mailbox.

From here, garden smells  

rise like spring tendrils

awakening ghosts 

who brush against 

my bare arm draw me  

to their haunts

while Dad  

in that smiling way 

chuckles, nods his head

   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A box cradled in George’s

thin arms holds dead 

Marmalade. The cat’s head swivels

she looks at me with 

hollow sockets, open

mouth what is dead?

   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The old rope swing traces 

a silent arc from lawn to trees

Jean grabs the swing

winds me up round

and round and round

I unwind slowly first

then faster, faster searing pain

my tender thigh caught

in twisting rope    

My cries sound like delight

until untwisted they see

my purple leg.   

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Another cheese party

guests sampling around little 

flags: Camembert, France

Manchego, Spain

A bouffant haired lady

smiles down at me

Hold this a minute, Sweetie 

She hands me her lit

cigarette I hold it like 

they do, tap the ash.

   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ski school in the Austrian alps

Gerd’s face way too close! My

hands push his puckered mouth

Schon gut! Schon gut! 

He mock punches my shoulder  

tips back his schnapps.

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ghosts hunker down

pulse

beneath the fertile loam 

of my father’s bed

we rest, he and I

in a tender remnant,

the offering of ghosts.