Gill Horitz
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A Father, What He Amounts To
Magnolia buds presented themselves differently,
they uplifted as though nothing
could compel death to reach inside
their grey skin.
The January light was more
notable when you and I went back
for his belongings to the room
where he died.
His climbing boots were paired
neatly as he and I had never been,
and his torn denims left
on the chair back waited
to be disposed of.
When you unhooked the keys
from his belt, it wasn’t stealing.
Nothing could unlock
what he still owed.
He didn’t even wait, the man
we drove to reach, but died alone
under a yellow counterpane.
First published as ‘Afterwards’ in The Poetry School
Published in ‘All The Different Darknesses’, published by Cinnamon Press