Barbara Marsh
Dad on a Train
Il est dans ma tete toujours, toujours
The French countryside is not rolling.
It is flying by and my seat looks
backwards: with my slice of window
I only know where I’ve been.
All day I have seen him, as he was
laid out when I said goodbye, his face
with the merest bit of white between his lips
where they were glued as if he’d gone
to sleep after brushing his teeth
forgetting to rinse. I waited for
the blue blanket to rise and fall
knowing it wouldn’t but nearly seeing it
anyway, as if it were suddenly last
Thanksgiving and I was checking on him
as he slept. For hours after, my lips tasted
chemical, were vaguely numb
where I had pressed them on his forehead, kissed
him three times because I couldn’t believe
how cold he was.
Now I think of your books,
the ones perhaps I should have kept, and the yellow
cashmere sweater and I wish I could stop.
I’ve bought a beer from the restaurant car and
all I can smell is cigarette smoke in my hair.
How you’d grumble if we sat near a smoker.
It is flying by and my seat looks
backwards: with my slice of window
I only know where I’ve been.
All day I have seen him, as he was
laid out when I said goodbye, his face
with the merest bit of white between his lips
where they were glued as if he’d gone
to sleep after brushing his teeth
forgetting to rinse. I waited for
the blue blanket to rise and fall
knowing it wouldn’t but nearly seeing it
anyway, as if it were suddenly last
Thanksgiving and I was checking on him
as he slept. For hours after, my lips tasted
chemical, were vaguely numb
where I had pressed them on his forehead, kissed
him three times because I couldn’t believe
how cold he was.
Now I think of your books,
the ones perhaps I should have kept, and the yellow
cashmere sweater and I wish I could stop.
I’ve bought a beer from the restaurant car and
all I can smell is cigarette smoke in my hair.
How you’d grumble if we sat near a smoker.
Page(s) 35
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