In Dreams Pt. 2

Erin Carlyle


 
 


This is true crime: my father

dead from an overdose. Ever since

they cut him, doctors said 

he wouldn’t make it, but he did

in some form, dreamy, pulled down

by medicine and heavy dreams

of my brothers and I in bathing suits

swimming in the river. I loved

my father’s wide and rough hands, 

but in this new version of his life 

they lay limp, grew soft. When we 

talked his voice was muffled, 

a medicated blanket, a deep star

filled sadness, his captured body

on the bed, the distance between us, 

a life stretching many years—fist 

to mouth. He slept though his death,

and the ceiling saw 

his wordless O’s, his soundless

self-inflicted last rights. 

 
 

Erin Carlyle

Erin Carlyle is a poet whose roots are in the American South. Her poetry often explores the connections between poverty, place, and girlhood, and can be found in journals such as New South, Tupelo Quarterly, Bateau Press, and Prairie Schooner. Her debut full-length collection, Magnolia Canopy Otherworld, is out now on Driftwood Press.