my childhood in his eyes.
Whenever I see it anywhere else,
I fear it.
I have memories of an infinite stair,
grass greener than riverbank foliage.
crunching leaves at my ancestor’s house
running across acres,
no other existence.
the alcohol he drank
and death, the only thing that makes us like children again:
he died with fetal dances, lying on pink sheets
and a quilt decorated with shellfish.
discovering the truth of what it means to be alive.
the dry river
descending the steps.
he promised me he would try
as he struggled to lift his hand
to take the last pill.