His Father's Eyes
Tue, 17 Feb 2015
Through half-closed blinds,
shards of light pierce stuccoed walls,
inciting them bear witness to the end
of this long night’s journey into dawn;
a crumpled fist, defiantly curled.
So soundly asleep; lays her cheek
next to his, so soon bruised by the world.
A tap drips in the sink – thrums a largo beat;
in the stove, yesterday’s coals grow cold.
He stirs...wakes; takes a stab at life – yelling
at the top of his lungs,
and I pray to God no child of his will gaze
upon a faded, army photo – have a mother say,
‘That man was your dad; you have his eyes,’
as if some kind of compensation, when
there is none, for me, at least.