Halloween Mask

by C. S. Nelson

Sad, old monster —
cigarette–poisoned skin,
paper thin on your hanging face,
hollowed cheeks fallen down
to flabby jowls, to two flat tires
that straddled the mouth
that once upon a time
flashed a Hollywood smile.

And those hazel eyes
that used to sparkle,
left to sparking in the end,
to spitting poison, to leaking tears —
a portrait, come familiar,
from a haunted house.

Last October, a year after your death,
a woman at my high school reunion
took my face in her hands and said,
“So handsome. Just like your father,”
and then kissed me goodbye.