The Ventriloquist

Having hung a bedroom mirror
I sat down near it on a corner of the bed.
Hunched over and resting my elbows 
on my knees, I stared at what looked like
my father in the mirror. He spoke 
to suggest I lift the hammer I still held 
in my right hand and lightly lay

its business end against my head,
my temple, rather. Which I did.
Then he didn’t ask so much
as tell me to, to tap just once,
see how it feels, you might enjoy it, 
you might even want to do it again,
maybe next time a little bit harder.

I tried it once while watching him 
watch me do it. We both smiled, 
the hammer at rest where it had been.
The iron was warming to my skin
when something shifted in the closet, 
whose door was closed. We’re not alone
here anymore, I heard him say,

 his lips this time not moving.
You better get up, get going.

First published in The Hopkins Review