What might I have said
as you sat raving on the porch
that Father’s Day at dusk…
drink in hand, gaze fixed on the street
where the sycamores met and formed a canopy,
and the pavement cooled, while in your chair
you twisted with resentment, spewing
vengeful curses, working your boxer’s jaw,
mouth bitter with Scotch, forearms tensed,
rage swelling like a muscle that threatened even me,
your youngest, forced to listen as proxy, as penance,
outside your field of vision on the chaise longue,
scared to move.
And the night, thick with perfume from
the opened four o’clocks and roses, spilled
under the awning and obscured your profile,
and your voice dampened, and a firefly
floating over the flower bed
tested itself against the dark.
There were pauses. You cleared your throat, refilled
your glass, stared at the sculpted yew bush on the lawn.
And the words, like a sequence of punches, slowed
and slurred and at last it ended.
Now in the night, so many years later, I imagine
crossing that pool of darkness,
laying a cool hand on your forehead,
bending to press my ear to your heart.
*Originally published in Poet Lore, Volume 100, Number 3/4; Fall/Winter 2005
©️ 2005, 2023 Karen Bennett