as i write
.
death perpetually sits in
the corner of my room
reading freud’s conceits
.
or when he’s feeling particularly
mischievous
kafka
.
he is an old man now
as our time together is deep
smelling of camphor and whiskey
and cologne deemed a sin during biblical times
.
my constant companion
since the age of six
we have many times shared plastic play set high tea
and brushed barbie hair
forced emily dickinson to eat bugs together
.
death in a doll house
.
he taught me long division
and later how to drive
bustled my prom dress
stood in the empty place
for the father daughter dance
at my halloween horror wedding
then sent me to mortuary college
.
how easily he became
my every electrified motivation
.
i so willingly devoured the
chocolate covered cherries
sugar-coated just for me
.
he has me hooked
on his sick sentimentality
.
luxuriating in the loss
agony so sweet upon the palate
injected into veins long desiccated
living in skin of unnatural colors
.
all i wanted was a mommy in the kitchen
a daddy in the den
children in the treehouse
a reckless devil in hell
and a responsible god in heaven
.
so when it all died
i tried to become it
and i have failed
.
though i have receipts that reflect an attempt at a life lived
spanning the miles between California and New Jersey
.
today
he smiles at me wickedly
with his three good teeth
and says
.
remember baby girl
you will die
in the same place
you began
.
fearing unknown noises in the hall
.
right here
with
me