“Daddy Dream Suite” by Erin Carlyle

Daddy Dream Suite

I don’t know          

from where, but my daddy

 sends me         a spirit: black dog,

 skin and bones. The dog        

 says: It’s hard

 to say if           a crack            in the sky

 can ever mend.            I only half

 understand, and then the dog asks

 me if I ever knew

 the difference between                       the tone

 of the crystal

 versus the glass bowls

 that used to live

 in my grandmother’s hutch.

 I nod, but  it’s a lie,

 The spirit gives me

instructions anyway, and though I am

not ready to guide

my daddy                                out of his grave,

I put my hand

 in the softened earth,

and pull him out

headfirst, born

 for the second time.

 I take him

 to a diner, get him

 eggs and toast, and he                         shimmers.

before me

in and out of existence.

*

He shimmers in

and out            of existence,

and the trees

around the diner                     

are burning.    Birds drop

 outside the window, dead.      Orange sky

 and orange juice

 for breakfast.

When Daddy is

where I am,

 he tells me                   the names of all the dogs

 that, as a child,

 he buried

in his back yard—old

 regrets,                                    and when he goes

 to the other side,                     I hear              

 nothing.

 The air            

 is bad here, but still,

 we exist           past August

and September            before

 he’s gone                                 completely—the trees

are all burned too,

some into ashen

  stumps and some

 into black forms

of their old selves. I get

up from the table, pay the bill. 

                        *

            I pay the bill and look

back

 at our table. Daddy hasn’t come

  back to this place,                               he’s gone

 somewhere— absent of light              or somewhere

  he can manifest

 as dark, hot hands reaching out.

  All the people in                     the diner talk

 about are the fires: trees

  burning—cremations,

ash                   falling into the river,

and when they use                  the word deceased,
it feels better

than hearing dead or they’re dead, they died

  or he died, he’s dead.

Featured art: Untitled by Saunders Drukker

Erin Carlyle (she/her) is a poet living in Atlanta, Georgia. Her poetry often explores the connections between poverty, place, and girlhood, and can be found in journals such as Tupelo Quarterly, Ruminate, and Prairie Schooner. Her debut full-length collection, Magnolia Canopy Otherworld, is out now on Driftwood Press.

Saunders Drukker is an amateur wildlife and landscape photographer, with a particular interest in wild land fire. He graduated from the University of the South with a degree in Ecology and Biodiversity before working as a Prescribed Fire technician at Tall Timbers Research Station in Tallahassee FL. There, he spent his days lighting prescribed fires in order to help the forest grow healthy. Saunders is currently pursuing a PhD in Biology at Texas State University where he studies the effects of wildfire on native reptiles and amphibians. Instagram: @saundersdrukker