Father gone

the door opened you entered my room
you came in quietly
you sat on the edge of my bed
your hand moved, onto mine,
resting, touching, holding.

how strange
was it the first time
I froze in disbelief
your skin was warmish
my thoughts shivered

hiding in still
shrouded moments
down down down
into the folds of white sheets

your hand slowly moved away
and you followed
with forgotten words
good words gone
you left the room

between us the unspoken
the door, closed quietly
leaving silence
this man, my father
my mother’s husband

I opened the door
I entered quietly
stood by the box
how strange to see you
looking like life

seeing your hands
I felt your skin
some words formed
from here and there

I moved away

© Oliver Whitehead

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River bed

in moving water
on the river bed
in unknown smells
of black shifting silt

on the river bed
in the flow water
submerged deep
in no light immersed

in the swirl of deep slime
the dark flow breathes
around remains of
shifting silt

in the flow of deep slime
discarded objects slide
scarring, my skin

this hell-black illusion
of fragments submerged
in river light flowing
around putrid refuse

I became a wrack of self torment
veiled in the debris
resurfacing from
the chill of natural light





© Oliver Whitehead

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