The body laid out in a small room,
the ventilator-mask attached, loosely.
The contour of the face, a grey ochre
wax protrudes from the body-bag. Leaning
I place my lips on your forehead, wish
you’d wake, recall when I—age nine on the way
to bed as you, mustache twitching, dozed
in your chair, tv playing—stopped to kiss
your forehead. You woke shouting, NEVER
DO THAT! EVER! And I don’t for a long time.
We stay that way, long after going to bed
in tears, long after misreading your words.
Click here to read Jay Brecker on the origin of the poem.
Image: photo by mali desha on Unsplash, licensed under CC 2.0.
Jay Brecker walks and writes in southern California. His poems are forthcoming or have appeared in Rattle Poets Respond, Birdcoat Quarterly, The Shore, Permafrost, Lily Poetry Review, Ocean State Review, RHINO Poetry, and elsewhere. His manuscript, blue collar eclogue was a national finalist for the 2022 Hillary Gravendyk prize.