Poetry and Poetics
TO MY FATHER ABOUT GOD
My father cannot spell world. He tries,
but can't find the d, so we
have our lunch.
I fish a pin-striped bug from my warm
gingerale, something at least
a finger can do to help. I pass it to him
as it flicks the fizz off its legs. He's folded
his walker against the empty chair
between us. The dining hall's thick
with the waltzing of trays and their waitresses.
He has perfect vision but can't see
the stripes, or the nib of the bug's fine bottom
that might be a stinger. So I decide on my own
it's a she, and that makes him somehow glad.
Then I watch the single quotes of her wings
lift off around what's left for us:
world, most of it.
© by Frannie
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