a cuff to the ear sometimes a gut-punch a wrench off the couch to catch that smudge in the Douglas fir pine cone or bird you ask the morning air nothing answers back sometimes un-breaking news unassuming/unassumed until attention’s paid your father’s black lunch pail leaking lacquer smells he inhales your mother’s stew scarfs down … Continue reading »
It was the first time my father had visited me since I moved to New York and we hadn’t been alone in a room since he helped me pack for grad school. He had paused before folding each article of clothing, then grimaced whenever he tucked something into my suitcase. His expression communicated what he … Continue reading »
