Dead Man Words

Two weeks dreaming about my dead father has finally got to me.
He is not dead but I left him in the bathtub for three days and he is surely dead by now.

We drag his body. My mother and I carry him back and fourth through the dim hall.
We do not know where to go. He is dead saying my name but my mother is screaming no.

His body is settling, she says. Ignore his words. I’m sorry.
They are not words, just sounds, air pockets of gas. He does not say your name, she says.

But he keeps talking and talking and there is an ink drawing of me dead on his shirt pocket.
He is afraid it has scared me away, but how can he say? He has been dead for three days.

He knows I am dead in the ink picture over his heart and he is crying.
I am not surprised. I am dead to him. The picture is not pushing me away.

It’s the talking, talking. Dead man words I’ve never heard before. He is not alive.
My mother hums as she cooks dinner. She is used to the dead man talking. She is not afraid.

But I watch him. Wait for him to die, again. It is not real, but I feel I’ve been here before.
I want to help mother cook. I am not afraid that he is dead. He has been dead for three days.

But why all the dead man talking now? Isn’t it too late? Shouldn’t he be in his grave?
He is talking, talking. Crying and saying sorry. Dead man words I’ve never heard before.