jughead-is-canonically-aroace:thedearidiot:- Ollie Schminkey, My Father. [ID: three screenshots of a

jughead-is-canonically-aroace:

thedearidiot:

- Ollie Schminkey, My Father.

[ID: three screenshots of a poem. the poem is in two columns, labeled “alive” and “dead”, which can be read separately or together. i will transcribe them in order: left only, right only, and together. the poem is 34 lines long

1:

alive

he walks through

the trees

the sun

sifting through

his beard

here

i am

just a kid

a father with

his favorite child

he looks

so much

like a dad

here we are:

birds flying

a pulsing river

a ravenous picnic

and that smile,

a mouth wide open,

his child

newly awakened

wrapped around his neck

like rosary beads

clinging to

his body

i loved him long before

i learned

of his body failing

and i held him so

trusting that

my love

is

enough

2:

dead

my dreams every night

turn to spiders that all have his face. there

is a campfire burning out, and me,

the white dust of

only ash in my hands.

in the real world,

standing next to his bed

again— he doesn’t look like

a body about to burn

to pieces

dead

silence— no voice, only an echo

not quite gone yet.

the pills are

down his throat, the morphine

into his stomach, his body

only for the disease,

the wound across his back becomes

filled with blood, and me,

standing next to the body.

grief has hands

twisted

tightening in prayer:

the last breath

like a final amen

i could speak

the prayer

a thousand ways—

still,

god will answer for

only god

never

for the living.

3:

alive — dead

he walks through my dreams every night

the trees turn to spiders that all have his face. there

the sun is a campfire burning out, and me,

sifting through the white dust of

his beard only ash in my hands.

here in the real world,

i am standing next to his bed

just a kid again— he doesn’t look like

a father with a body about to burn

his favorite child to pieces

he looks dead

so much silence— no voice, only an echo

like a dad not quite gone yet.

here we are: the pills are

birds flying down his throat, the morphine

a pulsing river into his stomach, his body

a ravenous picnic only for the disease,

and that smile, the wound across his back becomes

a mouth wide open, filled with blood, and me,

his child standing next to the body.

newly awakened grief has hands

wrapped around his neck twisted

like rosary beads tightening in prayer:

clinging to the last breath

his body like a final amen

i loved him long before i could speak

i learned the prayer

of his body failing a thousand ways—

and i held him so still,

trusting that god will answer for

my love

only god

is never

enough for the living.

end ID]

This is achingly beautiful and brilliantly done. 3 in one, like the Christian trinity of god the father, Jesus the son, and the Holy Ghost between them.