Kathryn Helms Empty/Full: A Diptych
I’m wilted as if my father was the one to
leave us here; as if this virgin grief
could be stretched out ninety-eight miles from the farm
to my dirty big city apartment; as if the face
of his daughter’s affliction could persist in me four weeks
after whispered adieus. Did they believe
my red bruised façade in line to view the body
was more than a brief interruption from a life
they’ll only see on field trips
and glossy postcard scenes?
Did they believe Amazing Grace
rubbing the roof of my mouth as it emptied out?
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