Minerva Rising, Issue 12, Winter 2017
Daddy’s Girl
In the curve of your arm
on the third pew as on every Sunday
that day I sat resting as if beneath a giant
branch stretched over a river,
kicking my feet in its cool water
until you said to stop or else,
and then once more.
Back home you proved
your word was good
and took me petticoats and all
to the back room.
I closed my eyes, breathed
Sunday dinner waiting,
heard the buckle click
like a key in a lock,
your belt hiss
as it leaped out.
It happened
only once. You
never struck me again.
I sat still
when you were watching.
We understood
each other after that, always
knowing we could make the other
choice and lose each other in an instant
the way a single lightning bolt
can break the heart of a tree.
It was the beginning
of silence so
words did not become
a promise you had
to keep. The beginning
of longing, wanting
something different promised.
First published in Minerva Rising, Issue 12, Winter 2017, page 14
For My Father
Dusk spreads like a shawl
around you sitting in the lawn chair,
newspaper twisted in your lap, eyes closed.
My son points to you, wanting
his favorite game. We
sneak up on you. Your hands
unfold to hold him.
Your hands damp
washed almost soft, almost clean.
You explained, mechanic’s grease
won’t come off. Your fingerprints
etched in black, I’d know them anywhere.
Luke calls for birds. You
point to one last martin
licking the day’s rim for insects.
Then the black ground closes
around you.
The two of you
become mere shapes beneath its folds.
I turn on the porch light
to hide the color it will be
when you are gone.
First published in Minerva Rising, Issue 12, Winter 2017, page 127