I shattered him.
I shattered father’s not unsteady breath or even an echo now
a body silenced, sliced, never returning.
we are too many questions to ask his bones.
because we can’t
remember if he smelled more like paprika
or orange juice
if he prayed with feet spaced far apart or close together
the ghosts a different name
his father who gambled
the torn up linoleum after the police came
and we can’t remember
how bad his hair frizzed when it was humid
and which body part he hated more
the soft sinew of his left arm or his entire right hand
how often he wore his one good shirt
a white button-down halfway faded to yellow
or how far his stomach went over his pants
or if his stomach hung
like a chandelier trying
to bring light to the rest of his body.
Ada Gold thinks she writes her best poems while riding the subway to work. She was born and currently lives in Brooklyn.