Our father died.

Me and my sister, young,
Retracted still further into childhood,
Onto the couch, filling
Our veins with sugar,
Our eyes with images of
A duck, a mouse,
A long-eared dog.

From time to time we lifted our heads,
Observed
The flow of flowers,
The streams of mother’s friends,
The lips forming words.
The priest listened,
Spread his cormorant wings,
Absorbed our mother.

On our island we waited for
The horizon’s last sail
To disappear, to safely wade
Back to our beds.

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