Your father has been dead for three days now.

You haven’t left this bed. Winter came quick

to cover up change as the final grave, and

there was so much snow blocking your front door. 

Your head turns towards him at night but

those eyes can look through objects.

Your father has been dead for three days now,

your plants have been dead ever since

you watered them last night and

now you wake up next to a husband,

you don’t hurry to get out of his bed,

your father has been dead for three days now.

With your stomach touching the edge of your knife,

you went for the kill, to keep him alive but

your father has been dead for three days now,

so, it doesn’t matter who’s right,

you met up with her last night in your dream 

and she swayed to the song you sing, and she touched your cheek.

You had the hyphenated word in your mouth

your father has been dead for three days now

and you woke up in your own

bed, in your new

home, in your dream.

Adrienne Rich sat with you, mellow-eyed,

ready to tell a story. And all you said was,

I do not know

who I was when I did those things

or who I said I was