GRIEF Poem: Second Father, by Alyssa Avarello

S-A-L-V-A-T-O-R-E,
the kind of name that flushes the sour out
of the mouth as you speak it.

So Italian and pedigreed,
it soaked his organism into animation.

14K gold tokens of Mary and Joseph
wrapped around his neck,
clanking like a catholic drum.

The “ka-ding” sound, I thought,
could be the last breath of my father’s,
rolled over, preserved,
a finger trip or two away
from the heart still beating in Salvatore.

I watched him drift into my ghost,
to a skeleton home, a hospital bed. Gone,
I watched the years melt
like a thin stream of condensation
for everything that was not.

His Old Spice stains the air—
the particles rattle quietly
inside my lungs, breath churning
like ocean’s milk,
a domesticated residue to prove
he was ever there.