A gold poetry rests under hand,
he was a painter and
a wrinkle in life.
I am his daughter.
On his lap, music
listened to my breath,
he was a sweet harmonica
smothered in vodka.
I was a drinking flower.
I scooped his footsteps with
a shovel and
slept in his smokey shadow.
In his order, a drunk soldier.
I am covered in armor.
He coughed,
and spewed me
out into a cold ditch.
One day, I painted him red,
myself blue,
and put him in a box that
blocked the sun.
I drifted with his body
along an eight year ocean,
until I became this,
a dark island.
