My father dyed
his hair red for the Claudius Play
(or so I called it, wanting him
to be the star--till mom told me
he was a bad guy--then I cried
and called it Hamlet). He would
come home from rehearsal
orange-headed, my father and yet not
my father, almost like a clown I watched
him practice falling. We went to see
the make-up place before the play where
mom said, It's OK, the knives aren't real,
but my father reaching for his rust-stained comb
dropped the stageprop dagger, and his toe bled.
I got to stay up late that night,
look down through shining dark
to watch Claudius rolling over,
my father and not my father
on the wooden O stage below.
His crown slipped down
and his head lay bare and still.
Now flying from Orly into O'Hare, where
the river's dyed green for St. Patrick's Day
and the stores are full of Shamrock hats,
I've been called home to the funeral home
too late to watch Claudius rolling over,
my father and not my father,
his hair not even gray.
(c)M. Lee Alexander 2007
from Observatory
Finishing Line Press, Georgetown, KY
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