It's Still Life

Her Godbone

What we believe
is what we want to believe.
Like my sister says

a white dove flew over her car
while she waited
in a queue for the ferry.

That was the day Dad died.
It was Dad, she said, but she mourned
him even before he was dead.

She has a locket with his ashes,
and a small silver box
with some of him in it, too.

There are slivers of shinbone,
and powdery ash.
Dad is the flesh of soil, but she

keeps that box in a drawer,
and says he’s her godbone.
Like a small token god.

Hope slides out of me.

Mum always carried a rabbit’s foot
in her purse. Sometimes
weirdness runs in the family.

Maybe I belong to some other family.

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for Twiglet #266 “small gods” Image: The Conjuror by Hieronymus Bosch  ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting #apoemaday on Twitter