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Elizabeth Gargano: The Dream Visit

.

When I walk into the living room,

my mother’s fake oriental rug gleams

like spilled wine, its long-necked

birds and spiky flowers

following their untraceable paths.

.

My dead father is visiting

so my mother and sister ask

how he spends his days.

Learning languages, he says.

Right now I’m studying

. 

Snowy Arctic. He likes the life,

he admits with a dry smile

except for the Archbishop

of Canterbury, who annoys everyone

with his pompous epigrams.

.

I’m glad to hear it’s not too bad

in that strange country

from which travelers so rarely

return, but just when I’m about to

ask him to say something in Arctic,

the wall with the family photos

.

recedes behind him. As his red

armchair sails away, he waves

through a haze of long-necked birds

rising from the rug, those birds

of paradise who can fly for centuries

down untraceable paths

of spiky flowers.

Copyright 2015 Elizabeth Gargano

GatesOfTheArctic

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This entry was posted on August 20, 2015 by in Poetry and tagged , , .

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