Tuesday poem #193 : Melissa Bull : Props

My father rolled his scabbed head

to the side that hurt less

and tried to hurry time by shouting to it,

Now! Now! Now!

I traded his stiff Sally Ann tweeds

and brogues for all-new discount duds.

Pyjama-soft but decent.

Sweats and zip-up cardigans.

Bags of socks and underpants.

Knockoff crocs. 

He pulled at his clothes the way a baby picks

off their socks. At ease

only with the feeling of air on his body.

And then slept

one motionless arm curled

against the metal ramp of his bed.

I laid out rows of Ensures along the windowsill

propped his bed just enough 

so he wouldn’t be straight-up horizontal.

I opened my own mouth to encourage him to swallow

plastic spoonfuls of vanilla pudding.

The delight at the taste lit up his face

in a singular fashion. The only delight left.

I wondered if it was the taste alone or the taste

together with the memory of the taste.

Melissa Bull is a writer, editor, and translator originally from Montreal. She has published, fiction, non-fiction, translation, and poetry in a number of publications, and is the editor of Maisonneuve magazine's "Writing from Quebec" column. Melissa is the author of Rue, a poetry collection, and the translator of Nelly Arcan's posthumous collection, Burqa of Skin. She lives in England.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan