by J. Tarwood
I
Father would have lived
off land, gleefully dirtying
fingers, glowering through Friday
markets, cucumber & carrot,
grape & gooseberry, boxed
like jewels. Peasantry gone,
he lugged words
for others. At Christmas,
they left him hard spirits.
His dreams never would work out
how to talk back.
II
Eight hours elsewhere done,
silence like a genie brought
him back. Pleasing Mother, he gave up
bars, rolling skeletal cigarettes
in Bible-brittle paper, reading
borrowed books returned without
a word. Bundled good, he drank
gifts to shut up his own,
each cold shot a threshold
to yet another.
J. Tarwood digs photos, specifically the ones right here.
I
Father would have lived
off land, gleefully dirtying
fingers, glowering through Friday
markets, cucumber & carrot,
grape & gooseberry, boxed
like jewels. Peasantry gone,
he lugged words
for others. At Christmas,
they left him hard spirits.
His dreams never would work out
how to talk back.
II
Eight hours elsewhere done,
silence like a genie brought
him back. Pleasing Mother, he gave up
bars, rolling skeletal cigarettes
in Bible-brittle paper, reading
borrowed books returned without
a word. Bundled good, he drank
gifts to shut up his own,
each cold shot a threshold
to yet another.
J. Tarwood digs photos, specifically the ones right here.
