Five winters in a row, my father knuckles
the trunk of his backyard pine
like he’s testing a watermelon.
He scolds smooth patches
where bark won’t grow,
breaks branches
to find them hollow.
He inhales deeply
and the pine tree has lost
even its scent. He grieves
in trees— my father, the backyard
forest king, the humble
king. The dragging his scepter
through the darkness king.
The wind splits him into shivers.
Rivers of stars
don him like a crown. My king
who won’t lay his tenderness down
trembles into the black
unable to stop
his kingdom from dying.
I have failed to quiet
the animal inside him.
If only I would
take his hand.
This man weeping
in the cold,
how quickly I turn
from him.
Copyright © 2017 by Hafizah Geter. “The Widower” originally appeared in Court Green. Reprinted with permission of the author.
Slapped the man’s face, then slapped it again,
broke the plate, broke the glass, pushed the cat
from the couch with my feet. Let the baby
cry too long, then shook him,
let the man walk, let the girl down,
wouldn’t talk, then talked too long,
lied when there was no need
and stole what others had, and never
told the secret that kept me apart from them.
Years holding on to a rope
that wasn’t there, always sorry
righteous and wrong. Who would
follow that young woman down the narrow hallway?
Who would call her name until she turns?
Copyright © 2017 by Marie Howe. From Magdalene (W. W. Norton, 2017). Used with permission of the author.