I hate it when you cough,
especially if it sounds like you are choking
on something—
it reminds me of my father,
always in a rush, running
through a hotdog, pot roast, turkey, choking
on his hurry.
(By “hate,” I mean I am irritated: Why?
Because my easily-irritated father
lives on in me.)
On the other hand, when I cough,
I expect you to come running; after all,
my father and I may be dying.
Cough
Priscilla Atkins is the author of The Café of Our Departure (Sibling Rivalry Press) and Drinking the Pink (Seven Kitchens Press). Her poems and hybrids appear in Marrow, PANK, Poetry London, The Los Angeles Review and other journals.