I have become
a foreigner
in my own home,
padding past an
unmade bed
someone else had
slept on, then
examining things
I used to think
I needed.
In the living room,
I observe the inert
body of my father
on the sofa as if
from behind
a velvet rope,
fascinated by his
stillness; not dead,
yet not quite alive.
Next, I scrutinise
the hallway as if
I am standing at
the scene of a crime,
except there is no
body sprawled across the white of the floor over a growing pool
of blood, its vague outline delineated by chalk; perhaps the body has already been removed and I am really its spirit, trapped between the past and that other place.
