Bio Note: Quite a few of the poems I have written in the past several months have been born of the conditions of the pandemic. When the social isolation was new, I took long solitary walks in the cold Wisconsin spring. I grew to enjoy the way these walks prompted free-flowing thought.
The Winter Dad Turned Basement Archeologist
Dad strips the ancient drop-leaf table splayed upside down. I’m ten and the long dark seeped into our narrow row house all afternoon like the way Dad never spoke much which frightened me but sometimes he sang Dad brushes a chemical slop across old paint the color of tuberculosis or maybe just sin. He sings It’s been a hard day’s night and Yesterday, love was such an easy game to play as he knifes the blistering goop aside. Once Dad proclaimed that sin is inevitable making that weekly Saturday drive to the church inescapable. Our lungs have become the atmosphere’s confessional booth. He and I lean over the table and strain to decipher the hieroglyphics of swirl and trail in the revealed scripture of walnut wood. The air of Wisconsin’s spring feels thin and sharp like the fumes of solvent. On solitary walks I scrape back the layers.
©2021 Sylvia Cavanaugh
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