Six AM I'm at the counter

Six AM. I'm at the counter

with no plate. Cold rice

from the container, fridge door open,

blue light on my bare feet, precise

and cold. One hand pressed

to my lower back. And then

the sound — that nasal half-whistle,

the breath of a man who's been

standing in kitchens too long.

My father's exhale leaving

through my nose. I set the fork

down. Not a thought. Not a grieving —

the diaphragm just fired

the way his always did.

I stared at my hands: his knuckles,

his cuticles. I slid

my gaze up to the window —

dark outside, so the glass gave back

his jaw, his sloping shoulders,

his spine's familiar crack

of posture. I always thought

becoming him would be a slow

unraveling I'd notice. Not

a sound, made once, below

the level of decision.

The fridge hummed on. The blue

light held my shins the way it held

his shins. I never knew

how little of me was mine.

I picked the fork back up.

My back clicked when I straightened.

Same vertebra. I couldn't stop

the half-whistle from collecting

again behind my teeth.

I swallowed it. Ate standing.

Felt him underneath.