April 27, 2017Modern American Gothic
Fresh from the feathers of our mother’s womb
and nursing at her daffodils in bloom,
my baby brother swings around the shoulder
of our flat-affect father. Three years older,
I wear that paisley Easter like the fringe
of my pink shawl while holding to the hinge
who held us all together. Time erases
everything—the faces from our faces,
all shadows, the ground and background sky.
Our father loved us when he didn’t try;
dead language for lyrics, he couldn’t name
the thing he wanted to; left us the same
blank expression, a longing to belong.
The shirt he gave us off his back was song.
from Ekphrastic Challenge