Alyssa A. Lappen
Magic, she said it was magic when
his soul escaped the body, which soon
grew hard, cold. He was gone, "Like that."
She expects him back, endlessly. "He's not
here, but where did he go?" She asks.
As if I could answer. Nowhere, somewhere
she can't see. She woke the kids to share
their father's end. Sitting with him
Made it easier to know he's gone.
"A life left," she said, "the same
way a life is born." A door closed
that once was opened. This mystery
puzzles me. How does she go on.
How did I. Not having felt the universe
shift the second my father left the world.
I haven't heart to say how absence scabs
and bleeds again, no heart to say what
she already knows: His exit was magic,
but the door won't close. She will stand
in the jamb calling "Where did he go? Why?"