flashquake Poetry

JUNIOR
by Dianne Thomas

Previously published in The Threepenny Review

You speak of him
in sentences that all begin
"Remember…"

The mask you wear
your father's face
is fitted over yours
a snug and mobile effigy
that hugs so tightly
bonding to your skin
without a single line to tell
where you leave off
and it begins

You think you've seen the last of him
until you find his portrait
at the breakfast table
gleaming in the toaster
shining on white china
smiling with distorted lips
from the bowl of your cereal spoon

Copyright 2003 by Dianne Thomas

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