Bethany Louise Chipperfield
My father lays sleeping on the couch,
No sound is audible, his face a pall of white,
The crinkled jaw my youth hardly saw, unhinged and opened wide
As if waiting for the words to say.
As I watch I notice
The fine rivers his skin holds, time has ravaged him delicately
And yet; is the brow not creased? Savagely
I laugh, quick my hands stifle me.