In Dreams Pt. 2
Erin Carlyle
This is true crime: my father
dead from an overdose. Ever since
they cut him, doctors said
he wouldn’t make it, but he did
in some form, dreamy, pulled down
by medicine and heavy dreams
of my brothers and I in bathing suits
swimming in the river. I loved
my father’s wide and rough hands,
but in this new version of his life
they lay limp, grew soft. When we
talked his voice was muffled,
a medicated blanket, a deep star
filled sadness, his captured body
on the bed, the distance between us,
a life stretching many years—fist
to mouth. He slept though his death,
and the ceiling saw
his wordless O’s, his soundless
self-inflicted last rights.
Erin Carlyle
Erin Carlyle is a poet whose roots are in the American South. Her poetry often explores the connections between poverty, place, and girlhood, and can be found in journals such as New South, Tupelo Quarterly, Bateau Press, and Prairie Schooner. Her debut full-length collection, Magnolia Canopy Otherworld, is out now on Driftwood Press.