Beck Babcock 

Everybody says I act like my dad
A stubborn chatterbox 
I keep going like a wind-up toy
Wound up 
Winding up 
Watch me go 
 
Watch me go crazy 
Angry 
As I lose my shoes 
My keys 
My brain like molasses 
 
My brain is filled with bees
Buzzing, relentless 
A biological cause 
Causing me to sew 
For hours on end 
 
Domestic 
To cook and clean 
Not a speck of dust or moldy mark
No dirt 
On my pure soul, close to God

When I look in the mirror 
I see my dad 
His wide nose 
Eyes like lapis lazuli 
Long eyelashes fluttering against cherub cheeks 
 
A ghost Inside myself 
The last pieces of him that I’ll never lose
Until I’m next to him 
Separated by cold New England dirt 
And a wooden coffin 
Not touching