My Dying Father - A Snap Shot

This poem describes the child inside the woman and her feelings about her dying father.

         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.