This past summer I wrote this poem “Your Father.” Something’s being bothering me about it ever since then, but I haven’t been able to put my finger on it. Last night I realized it needed a second stanza to complete it. So here’s the new version: When I told your father your old house had…
Through the glass he stared into the garden as the ashes were buried beneath the stepping stone. In the reflection she held onto the baby as its eyes were fluttering against her bare shoulder.
“He’d fallen into the hands of a madwoman here. Someone too long alone who dwelt in a surreal realm where the punishment for piethievery was death by shotgunning and the alchemy by which crushed pies were made whole was commonplace.” – William Gay, Twilight
Why even yell “Shut the door” as if you have control over the blazing sun?