A Fa­ther

New England Review - - Joan Larkin - Joan Larkin

who’d put down the drink–– decades of shout­ing coiled in quiet––

sat for­ward on his fold­ing chair: What should he do about the son

who wouldn’t speak, who posted I wish he were dead. I of­fered

one of our bro­mides, and he stared, twist­ing fin­gers and lips.

Where was the an­gel to lift him by the hair

as he twisted in the av­er­nal cur­rent? If I have wings, they’re dog’s wings,

my old body a dog’s, float­ing over the cold eye.

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