by Krista Franklin

If you have never
missed rude banter,
witty tête-á-tête
with the man
who part-made you.
If you cannot recall
cooling his death
bed brow, standing near
his ashes, watching
him grasp at his life
with tales, with vinyl,
messages scribbled in blue
BIC pen on their worn
sleeves, you do not know
this. What it means
to have a staring match
with God. That the body
is a trick, a black tophat
with a false bottom,
a white rabbit somewhere
in-between. You do not
know the tricks played,
the spades, payday loans,
debts and disappointments.
You cannot imagine
sifting through the debris,
the deadend documents
of unpaid bills and mysterious
correspondence, plastic bags
tied in plastic bags tied
in plastic bags tied in
plastic bags, like some
strange Russian Dolls
Tucked beneath
the bed. A sealed manila
envelope with some porn
inside. This is not yours,
if you have not screamed
at your sister, into a pillow,
averted your eyes
from the catheter cascading
from his white sheet,
walked down the hall
from his hospice room
in a sticky rage so thick,
wanting it to be done.
You are not ruined
enough for this.

Poem copyright 2026 by Krista Franklin. All rights reserved.

See more poems from Krista Franklin on The Fight & The Fiddle: “High Priestess,” “Mourner’s Corner,” and “On Measurement & Invisibility.”

---

Read more in this issue: Interview | Critical Essay | Writing Prompt