My Dying Father - A Snap Shot

         The pharaoh is dead—or very nearly.
         His nose, old arc of bone, like Rameses,
         here is a mummy already gone,
         already paper stretched cross skull.

         Remembering, I dreamed this once, when I was young.          
         I wished him old.
         I wished him sick.
         I wished him made of paper and sticks,
         like a kite crushed on stone.

         Rameses is gone—or very nearly.
         Sick in sheets, white linen wrapping
         his queen stands watch, smile-stretched
         lips; in life she dared not grin.

         Remembering, I prayed for this, when I was ten.
         I dreamed him old.
         I dreamed him sick.
         I dreamed him made of paper and sticks,
         so I could shriek and fear no whip.

         He is a mummy—or very nearly,
         brainless head and heartless chest.
         Canopic jars set on a ledge—already full
         of what was left, of what I was in Pharaoh’s house.

         Remembering, I wanted this—once—when I was young.
         I prayed him old.
         I prayed him sick.
         I prayed him made of paper and sticks
         like a body made of sand—already gone, or very nearly.