cw: parental death
father stirs cigarette ashes
while mother sleeps in hers.

I roll a new word between my fingers,
feel the itch.

father drops weight &
we’re mirror images:

our bodies twin
crucifixes.

he contemplates
how to beat a mass

two years too late–
his father chose lead;

his mother, hospice. 
I can only watch 

his mind metastasize 
& scratch

at my palm.
that word again:

orphan, almost. 
​​
Casey Finley (he/him) writes poetry and fiction. He is currently at work on a dark fantasy novel and a poetry chapbook. You can find him on Twitter @caseydoesthings. 
header credit: Deborah Diem via Unsplash