I found him on the porch that morning,
sipping cold coffee, watching a crow
dip down from the power line into the pile
of black bags stuffed in the dumpster
where he pecked and snagged a can tab,
then carried it off, clamped in his beak
like the key to a room only he knew about.
My father turned to me then, taking in
the reek of my smoke, traces of last night’s
eyeliner I decided not to wipe off this time.
Out late was all he said. And then smiled,
rubbing the small of my back through the robe
for a while, before heading inside, letting
the storm door click shut behind him.
Later, when I stepped into the kitchen,
I saw it waiting there on the table—a glass
of orange juice he had poured for me and left
sweating in a patch of sunlight so bright
I couldn’t touch it at first.
From Healing the Divide, (Green Writers Press, 2019). Posted by kind permission of the poet.
Image by Anshu A./Unsplash
Grains of hope still remain Memories invade my brain When I seek peace I feel…
Do you love things that cascade? Do you adore rain falling in sheets or over…
She begins, and my grandmother joins her. Mother and daughter sing like young girls. If…
This site is brought to you by A Network for Grateful Living, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit. All donations are fully tax deductible in the U.S.A.
© 2000 - 2021, A Network for Grateful Living
Website by Briteweb
We are delighted to announce the release of Kristi Nelson’s book Wake Up Grateful