On the Fourteenth Day without a Father by L. A. Johnson

On the Fourteenth Day
without a Father

The cloud arrives suddenly in our interior, dull
shroud, wisp

that floats mysterious. Spilling a shadow, it invades us,
frosty room

drowned in shade. We obey. I find my mother
in deep gaze,

eyes locked. My brother afraid, his skin a brocade
of bruises.

I delay beside them like a sparrow that refuses to eat
the airy fluff

of dandelions. The cloud pervades, dark nimbus
we pray

for its billows to blow out with the western wind
or for fire

to splay it apart. In its shadow, our mislaid secrets
cascade down

around us. The cloud carries my crocheted sweater,
never worn.

It holds the keys to all our old houses. It keeps one lock
of braided hair.

I have no brave desire except to lay across from it,
restrained

from touching the white veil, waiting for its decay
or vanishing,

a blade tight in my hand. I study it day and night. I
can’t locate

my father in cloud or shadow. I don’t know how to
stop looking.

More from L. A. Johnson:

“Silvering,” a poem