Two milligrams
of morphine was enough,

weak as he was,
his mind already gone,

breath like a rusty shovel
in the loam

that caked his lungs.
He wasn’t coming home.

My father killed his father
with his hands

stroking the last stray vectors
of white hair

and timing with the distance
of his stare

the proper dosage
decency demands.

I watched behind a magazine,
aged six,

parsing segments
of his death between

“Rising Stars of Friends”
and “Seventeen

Reasons Why We Love
Brad Pitt.”

 

— Published 19th August 2019

 

About Jordan Potter