Premonition
Each book short a poem,
the poem I couldn’t yet write.
My father exits; thinking
he is going outside, I open
the door to follow, find
My father exits; thinking
he is going outside, I open
the door to follow, find
him naked on the other side
facing me unshielded, vulnerable
to the rise in my voice.
The poem I can’t yet write
saves for itself a blank page
facing me unshielded, vulnerable
to the rise in my voice.
The poem I can’t yet write
saves for itself a blank page
