SARAH PAPE

Wishes

In the arms of my lover, I think of father falling
when I was four, from the fifty foot ladder, and
how each room of the house changed, especially

their room, where he was fused to the mattress and
glowing bottle of pain pills, little yellow buttons
he would ask me for, make a cup with his hand to

receive and throw into the wishing well of his mouth;
he made so many wishes those months, before the
surgery, before I watched his muscled torso become

a stiff white column that I was not to touch, not even
walk near, and so I ceased looking, gazing upon the
lean, brown man that once swung me, and danced

into the brightly lit kitchen, a chord of laughter behind
us and the smoking trout in the pan, filet searing our lips.