reworked

[p_seudonym]

 Papa

In August, the cicadas strike up an intolerable screeching
and fall like knotted hail, a final frenzy before the silence of snow.
Below their barrage, the geraniums slump
limp as speechless tongues against terra-cotta lips.

Among your flower pots you wait for the end of summer,
hands wilting against the arms of your chair,
slackening face in a

Comments

[butterflies00]

oh... it's beautiful.
my favorite stanza: "I have been drawing neurons in the margins for months
as though I could repair your synapses with my pen,
as if the right metaphor could replace your failing legs
the power of simile recall your voice."
at least that was the one that caught my attention.

[sightempest]

I heard you read this at the reading Monday. I don't remember your face, but I remember the poem. Small world.

[p_seudonym]

fun! thanks for coming to the reading & supporting us.

[sightempest]

you're welcome! you write beautifully.

[p_seudonym]

thanks!