Contributor: Deanna Morris
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Father returns from the office,
pours himself a whiskey, and unknots his tie,
removes his wingtip shoes, and hands them to me.
Mother brings him a plate of canapés.
I place the shoes in his closet, next to several other pairs,
polished and perfectly positioned.
I linger there.
Above hang his 23 business shirts. I pull one from the rack
and put it on; the sleeves hang from my arms like white flags
waiting on a northeast wind. Mother is in the kitchen,
a seersucker apron at her waist, stirring supper.
I sit in my father’s closet listening to my mother
swearing, slamming the spoon on the stove.
I pull my father’s shirt tighter around me.
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Deanna Morris is a MFA graduate of Butler University with publishing credits for poetry, short stories and freelance pieces. She was awarded Best in Poetry for Indiana University/Purdue University Genesis literary magazine.
Very fine piece. Even though my father was blue collar and came in with a lunch bucket, much of the rest of the scene is the same. Except that he didn't drink. And my mother once said that she wished he would once in awhile. I always thought that would be like pouring gasoline on Hades. I wonder though if the author and I had different fathers if we would be writing. I would have gone to law school and squirreled away mountains of money to count in my dotage.
ReplyDeleteThis is a really good poem. I was there with you! Well done.
ReplyDelete