by Medina Durakovic
I hear the buzz of the doorbell
Who’s here this late? I didn’t order a delivery
My feet shuffles with my grumbles down the stairs
I gasp—
There, covered in dirt, and the signature gray jacket,
With that crooked smile—
Dad
But you’re—you’re—
Here, you finish
Arms outstretched
One year and a half erased
I collapse into your arms
You can’t hold my sobs,
But you try anyway
Come in
I missed you so much.
I hand you your coffee with milk and Splenda
Your body folds into the crevices of the couch like you never left
So, tell me what happened
And you do
You simply explain, that this all was just
A big misunderstanding
When the dirt had already settled, and the tombstone set
You awoke and realized that you had simply slipped
Into a coma and not into the end, as the nurse had claimed
So you simply dug your way out
You banged and banged
Until the wood gave
And you stumbled your way home to us
Your skin hadn’t even begun to rot, the dirt
Was nothing a shower couldn’t fix
You look as good as new, this was all a
False alarm, not to be confused with a pregnancy scare
A death scare if you will
This time apart will become something we make jokes about
No hard feelings, you’re back now
And I got my shovel in the garage,
A few good knives in the drawer
I’m laughing with you here but I’m well aware
That I’ll stab the grim reaper in the eyes
If he thinks he can try to
rip you from me again
About the Author
Medina Durakovic was born and raised in Queens, NY. A first-generation college graduate, she has her Bachelors in English and Secondary Education from Queens College and a Master’s in Poetry from The New School. She currently teaches middle school. Her poem “1/29” can be found in the literary journal “A Quiet Courage.”
Nebulous 