Afterlife
In the dream, my dead father
is no longer dead. His dim blue eyes
sputter with life, his yellow teeth
begin to wind up, and his arms begin
to move, alive, alive! He is alive,
and he is grinning. He is grinning,
and he is beating me! His hands
smack my bare ass. Hit. I enjoy
this, he growls. Hitting you,
just for the art of it. The rotation
of my wrist, the arc in the air,
the connection of our flesh,
the heavenly slap, Oh yes,
this is heaven.
is no longer dead. His dim blue eyes
sputter with life, his yellow teeth
begin to wind up, and his arms begin
to move, alive, alive! He is alive,
and he is grinning. He is grinning,
and he is beating me! His hands
smack my bare ass. Hit. I enjoy
this, he growls. Hitting you,
just for the art of it. The rotation
of my wrist, the arc in the air,
the connection of our flesh,
the heavenly slap, Oh yes,
this is heaven.
Callie S. Blackstone writes both poetry and prose. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Plainsongs, Prime Number Magazine, The Wondrous Real, and others. Blackstone is a lifelong New Englander. She is lucky enough to wake up to the smell of saltwater and the call of seagulls everyday.
Art: Patricia Caspers
