Every night, for the last month
daddy has sat at the end of your bed
asking how you are
Princess, he calls.
Your throat tastes like the Zolmitriptan you stopped using in June.
You’re glad your dad left before you could see the Adam in him
but now you’ve taken up the hobby of studying the cracks in the throats of men
wondering where all the debris must fall to. They all seem so tired
when they are with you,
unravelling their bandages to expose wounds decaying
with age and experience.
‘Archeologist’ made an appearance on your list of career choices when you were a girl so
the study of broken, ancient things has never left your hands
which, you are told, are as tender as your father was.
how are you? he asks.
Every year since 16 spring comes with migraines that feel like your brain is living through autumn and preparing for the grieving of winter. Your dad died on the 3rd of June, 1994. Every year your body mourns his breath and neither the
tenderness of your hands nor your desire to fix broken things can heal the throbbing
in your head.
He, your father, asks you how you are
and you do not lie.