Imperfect Imitation of Something Familiar by Amalia Neff

I lay on your chest and you’re
warm and smell like beer.

My Dad on our
child-worn couch
is watching football.
It’s Sunday evening

and you make hand puppets
in the shadow of your
orange lamp against
the wall.

Distorted shapes dance from
those lacey fingers,
morphed like monsters that might
eat me from under my bed.

Cover my nose
with your warm shaky breath. It’s
time to go, I’m flushed and fuzzy and
you kiss my forehead goodnight.

My back is cold, no longer
leaned against you, hunched
I pull long blue-lined sock-puppets over
white shins that look like my mothers,

I can smell her 15 years ago,
Secret deodorant and St Tropez.

Please, I don’t wanna leave
the sweet worn arm-crook of
her black-and-white striped tee,
but it’s time to go, pumpkin.

The world has gone dark and
in the distance a car alarm goes off.