I lie stretched across these papers,

Littered over a hardwood floor.

Marta tried to polish it,

Using Dad’s Darkwood Correction

She worked six hours,

Apron coming untied

Whenever she bent down,

And her glasses sliding to the tip of her nose

She worked around me,

Lifted my arms from the floor,

And ran a rag beneath them

Avoiding the papers

Which sogged when the rag touched them.

Most of the house was dusty,

And had been since dad passed.

A hydrangea plant was placed in the corner,

Brightly colored and potted neatly,

But it was made of plastic,

And gathered dust.

To tell the truth,

the house had never been clean.

Only had blankets shoved

Over the things he didn’t like to see

Usually thrust into corners

And put beneath piles

Of leaves in the backyard.

I rarely wondered

Whether I knew him as I thought

Or as I saw

Likely a figment of imagination

When I hid behind trees, scared of the lawnmower

In overalls and bangs I had cut myself,

While Marta polished the floors,

Avoided the papers.

A physicality then,

When I finally emerged and saw him in the kitchen.

Away from the pile decomposing

Near the fence,

Of the picket variety,

Never painted because he disliked lies,

But polished like the floors.

He cooked macaroni on the nights he was away,

Before he closed and locked the front doors.

Played monopoly with me on the rug.

I got up, stirring papers,

walked to the corner where the hydrangea stood,

Reached into the brightly colored pot,

and felt damp soil.