Mood:
not sureTopic: poetry
Thinking about fathers and my father in particular makes me also think about my mother. And I was inspired by this prompt. I guess one of these days, I need to go through the poems I've written the last few months and do some revisions. The dreaded revisions!
***
A Memory
her words fill the gaps
of our work
like strands of sunlight
from here to there
we are shaping dumplings
or walking through a wood
our eyes to the ground
to spy out the roots we want
she tells me about a little girl
scared of caterpillars
who would hop up
on her brother’s back
at the clap of thunder
who cracked the whole length
of her fingernail
falling from his shoulders
and other times
she comes across a memory
that stills the air
then only the smoke and ash
of the cigarette between her stained fingers
fill the space between us
