For a moment there

I thought I was somewhere else,

but I am still here, encased in this place

like sausage curing in a back room.

If only my father could see me now,

but he is somewhere else,

although sometimes I still hear his voice here,

as if just offstage, muffled by moving sets.

I lifted my chirping phone once,

perched on my hand like a tropical bird,

but it just squawked the unfamiliar words

of someone else’s father.

The text from an unknown number

and the special email from a Nigerian prince

did nothing to repair the torn rope bridge

that once tied us together.

I know it is irrational,

but I cannot sweep up the courage to go elsewhere

with no copy of myself left here in waiting

to greet him and call me back to meet him.

What if while I strike north with purpose,

he arrives from the south to find only my echo,

and we miss each other again?

Or what if he does not miss me at all?