My Father's Corpse
by Andrew Hudgins


He lay stone still, pretended to be dead.

My brothers and I, tiny, swarmed over him

like puppies. He wouldn't move. We tickled him

tracing our fingers up and down his huge

misshapen feet — then armpits, belly, face.

He wouldn't move. We pushed small fingers up

inside his nostrils, wiggled them, and giggled.

He wouldn't move. We peeled his eyelids back,

stared into those motionless, blurred circles. Still,

he wouldn't, didn't move. Then we, alarmed,

poked, prodded his great body urgently.

Diddy, are you okay? Are you okay?

He didn't move. I reared back, gathered speed,

and slammed my forehead on his face. He rose,

he rose up roaring, scattered us from his body

and, as he raged, we sprawled at his feet – thrilled

to have the resurrected bastard back.

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