Picture This   Amanda Leigh Lichtenstein



Coins and shoelaces

Car keys and clouds


Picture the day

You returned home


Father's dark toenail

Fell off, finally --


Placed on the mantel

Microscope close


Old men shed layers

Of skin and then


Picture the day

Your father dies


And you do not fly

Home – not yet.


A perilous sort of paralyzed

Two eyes, quizzical


A sorrow mirror:

Ghosts sleep in the shower.


First you turn off the lights.

Then you remember your toes.


Tickets arranged, click-click.

Airports full of asthma.


Your father is dead,

All his music stacked


High in sex-closets

Stuffed with feathers.


You box-drag endless

To the curb – and he


Coughs from the porch

Clapping his hands, windless.



Next >