My father played possum one morning,

his crew cut bristles on the pillow

next to momma’s bobby pin curls.

In this story, I am four, no new

little sister yet. He doesn’t twitch

or blink or move a bit. He’s asleep

Mom said. I look closer, but no sound.

I yank on the bedspread, the sheet,

his white tee shirt, just a little.

Nothing. I tickle his eyelashes,

his ears, but he really is a possum.

I move down to his feet, test a toe

then a knee. It was a Saturday,

their day off from the GE factory, but

he was not going to get away with it.

I march into the kitchen, push a chair

over to the stove where I grab the spatula

stomp back and give one good whack

across his nose. Words I never heard

before spill out. It’s my fault baby doll.

I’m awake now. Let’s make breakfast.