Read Me

Read Me I wish I could become a newspaper Laid across my father's lap Folded over myself, crisply Smelling of ink Waiting to smudge him Blacken his hands First, his glasses arrive Fitted Yet always slithering To the familiar crease Somewhere half-way down His nose He opens me lengthwise Exposes my headlines In order of importance Now, Flings me Apart Checks the obituaries Finds my heart there Pauses . . . Runs his finger down The middle of it Skimming for details He nods to himself Imagining he understands But his sense of loss Is limited To his growing forehead And misplaced keys Next, seeks the Classifieds He finds my body For Sale "Low mileage" it says, And "like new" Call Lu at three numbers Dash Four more 50 And under the TV listings A talk show theme reads: "Girl left in pink room with a canopy bed Through eighteen years offootball games And ice cold six packs" "Some people" He mutters Harumping and coughing Into his cup of coffee With two sugars Back page now, Weather Forecast map Littered with dashes, Color zones And warm fronts He finds my eyes Above Tomorrow's rain But it's another man's Prediction He reasons Scratching his cheek With an inky finger Then snapping me shut, Dropping me on the spot Where the dog sleeps I'm face-up On the carpet Unable to arrange myself Listening to the faucet Waiting to watch his taintless Hands Returning from the kitchen Most evidence offinding me Is safely down the sink But gray still coats the soap Like bread mold And he forgets to wash his Cheek. Alayna Dusenbery 51 ...