We’re in a living room
so cold, my exhalations
explode against his face.
Yet he sits perfectly still—
a stringless marionette
with no master,
or a ventriloquist’s doll
capable of stealing
the show with its own jokes
if it wanted to,
if it summoned the will.
His facial expression,
unyielding.
His unblinking eyes
never meet mine.
I grab his chin,
try prying his mouth open
to get him to explain himself
these many years after
his death. His mouth
stays shut tight. It hints
at a smile.