stories at the dinner table

beside herself with the rash of one thousand blueberries
she cries in an alphabet that no one understands
it is morning & i am knee high watching steel boxed secrets disappear
in the haze of adolescence. i want to be a garbage man!
my father is home from work seraphic and saintly holding
the sheriff’s scale and rejoicing Not Guilty On All Counts
america equates one murder to my childhood Christmas so
at age 8 I knew that eternity sounds like hitting a watermelon with a hammer
because reverent fathers plant seeds with small hands stained blue

Asha Deaving

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