buried in boxes (poem)

He is a mountain-ness man. Looks
nice enough. I'm dressed anew and
extra pretty clean like the house
with freshly plaited hair.

I enter the front room marching
as if a church aisle. Momma and the man gaze
upon me, for I am "show and tell." Maybe special
I smile as practiced and shake vigorously.

Momma tugs the limp doll of me and demands
I say "hi" to the man named, this is
your father. I look for her, to him, to laugh perhaps
for him, to her, for signs of dream in sleep.

But you said he was dead. I thought you said he was ...
Words unleash the sunset of eyes, Momma pretends to chuckle
he groans, her legs uncross, her hand is swift
one palm covers my mouth now emptied.

Momma pats the non-existing wrinkles
of my polyester dress. this is your father lunges forward
hugs me hard, I hold hands collapsed at sides. I perch my chin
over his shoulder and consider my little brother's wallpaper
fingerprints.

Now a box fills his lap. A gift for this is your daughter. The next day
I look inside for answers. With every box thereafter I look inside
a search, a reason, something about why my Father has come back
to life and why he is gone
again.