Coriel O'Shea Gaffney
We should be getting a new tire today, / but we are driving slowly / to a farm in Queens instead / to see llamas and sheep, pumpkins and cornstalks. / I’m tired of being responsible.
Kara Gebhart Uhl
There was a time I could not fathom / her being able, allowed, to wander the house alone.
“Are you supposed to reduce them?” / I ask. // “No,” she says, “we didn’t learn / simplifying yet.”
His arms are outstretched in a cross, dropping / what could be stars through stick fingers. / The birds have yet to arrive, / the diamond shaped pellets continuing to drop onto the page.
What is it called?– / the seed carried aloft by the ephemeral?
…the warmth of my father’s voice / as cozy as the rooms he’d heated / summoned me to breakfast, / my feet scurrying across
and I am thirteen again,/ back in your old green pickup, ripped / seats, empty coke bottle, your spittoon, sour / smell rising up in August heat.
“Dad, will you be home tonight?”/ And I just know Bismarck looked like this when he was four,/ in his PJs and miniature spiked helmet.
He is my father, a stranger with my teeth, / jagged bone-white peaks. Eight visible blades / of a smile; eight flames of the menorah.
Brand new baby, nursing/ from my full breast in// the crook of my elbow,/ half drinking, half dreaming, // me wondering if his dad/
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