Sta.sh
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hindsightAt one time, we followedhindsight by `secondmagpie
the fires of July like fools in love
with heat smothered on our raw anatomy--
but fall has wrought our kindling into cinders,
carried it away on the earth's currents and sighs.
Here we see the girls with pressed skirts and
polished Mary Janes catch drifts of oak leaves,
pale-downed arms reaching for the bleached clouds
of late September,
and when the boys with all their chivalry abandoned
come searching for pig tails and rounded thighs,
we watch the snow eat an old world
from our separate park benches.
Cigarettes lay crumpled on the ground,
dead soldiers from our last war.
But when I open my eyes again,
genealogyThe box is so old it breaks apart at the cornersgenealogy by `secondmagpie
when I lift it, spilling out faces
on the cold basement floor;
this, they tell me, is not where you are.
I find my father staring at me, back when he wore
a stern beard and a blue uniform,
both smelling equally of diesel.
His thick arms are cradling our first cat
with the delicacy of a new parent with their first born.
Here is the man who kept a gun
and wouldn't tell his wife where,
who tore apart a family
while a young girl played in their yard;
someday, she will forgive him
over the casket of his mother's body
when they begin to walk away in silence.
It was first time I saw him cry,
the f
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Winter Downs 
