For a moment there
I thought I was somewhere else,
but I am still here, encased in this place
like sausage curing in a back room.
If only my father could see me now,
but he is somewhere else,
although sometimes I still hear his voice here,
as if just offstage, muffled by moving sets.
I lifted my chirping phone once,
perched on my hand like a tropical bird,
but it just squawked the unfamiliar words
of someone else’s father.
The text from an unknown number
and the special email from a Nigerian prince
did nothing to repair the torn rope bridge
that once tied us together.
I know it is irrational,
but I cannot sweep up the courage to go elsewhere
with no copy of myself left here in waiting
to greet him and call me back to meet him.
What if while I strike north with purpose,
he arrives from the south to find only my echo,
and we miss each other again?
Or what if he does not miss me at all?