My Father's Books.(Poem)

 
MY FATHER'S BOOKS 
 
   The moment of my father's death 
   his books slithered off their shelves, 
 
   they walked on their pages 
   like giant centipedes. 
 
   Or flew 
   like thousand-winged moon-moths 
 
   and landed on his body. 
   They wanted to read him 
 
   as he had read them 
   during his long illness, 
 
   often falling asleep, 
   his face on their faces. 
 
   And the words had hissed 
   like stick insects 
 
   flashing their wings in threat posture 
   until he was awake again. 
 
   My emaciated father-- 
   how often had I longed to pull open 
   his pink wings 
   furled under his shoulder blades 
 
   and read his sealed scripts, 
   my Spectre, my Touch Me Not. 
 
   But when I came 
   and kept vigil ill his armchair 
   while ...