Junior

You speak of him

in sentences that all begin

“Remember...”

The mask you wear

your father’s face

is fitted over yours

a snug and mobile effigy

that hugs so tightly

bonding to your skin

without a single line to tell

where you leave off

and it begins

You think you’ve seen the last of him

until you find his portrait

at the breakfast table

gleaming in the toaster

shining on white china

smiling with distorted lips

from the bowl of your cereal spoon

Previously published by The Threepenny Review and Flashquake