Arianna

On the bright October morning
I found out that your father had died, the leaves
burned a beautiful orange and I laid my
cheek against the car window, iron claws
at my throat.
Like an amputee feeling for his arm, like a tongue
looking for a long-lost molar we are left
grasping at straws, coming across pictures,
sitting in traffic wondering where exactly we are headed.
My father sits at the scrubbed wood table staring
at his hands,
the skin around his eyes is loose and red,
and all I can think of is you, angry and desperate,
hair flying and lips pursed,
empty hands and empty heart screaming with every breath,
slicing your feet on your broken life as you make your way for the door.