Leo stood at the bay window. He stared at patches of gray,
a sky determined to unburden its belly of snow.

Beneath the bed my father had built, early on,
when his hands were steady,
He must have knelt by the wood, his face so close
the dust caught in his eyelashes
a tan suitcase. Inside, a cashmere scarf, a color of blush like wine-stained lips,
work clothes, black shoes, tees.

There was a handwritten note addressed to Mom on paper like cream.
“I am stuck”.

Why does Mother keep it?

“Better tuck it back, under the bed.”
My older brother spoke with the authority of a schoolmaster,
his black shirt pinching the skin
beneath his Adam's apple.

“Did you know this was here?”
I zipped the suitcase, slid it beneath the thick, long arms of the bed frame
that never sold.

My brother turned quickly, a wisp of hair.
“I'm going to remodel the store.”
“Go ahead. It's all yours-- ”
“We need to change.”
“--it wasn't left to me.”

“We have to work together, Amie.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, the cerise duvet
torn in places.
“He loved you,” Leo said.

I thought of my father's last afternoon.
Comatose. Breathing.
Unable to labor on arduous projects
that left him alone in the store for hours and days,
his arms were pasty and saggy, folded
over hospital sheets.
His huge hands were not moving.
“I'm the only one he didn't hit.”

Oh my, Rosa

How wonderful to see this poem, I remember it well

You have done some serious trimming (where's the sandals in the wet sand?)

Really short on time, Rosa, I will come back, but this is like seeing an old, barefoot friend.

Back tomorrow, hopefully

Take care

Zoe

Thanks, Zoe. Glad you stopped by!  

I'm re-visiting this one. I wasn't quite satisfied with the original. It stuck with me for, months, a year? I keep thinking about this one. It's nagging at me.

I like the dialogue. But, I don't want to turn this into a dialogue-thing, a dramatic poem, or a poem for 2 voices.

I don't know. Maybe I'll figure it out.