I believe the spine was stolen
right out of my father’s back.
Slumped at the kitchen table,
he doesn’t move. Beyond the window,
light pierces the clouds,
inspires all matter to burst.
Father had a way with explosions.
The noon sun’s breaking and entering
his head—smashing the temple
and storming his heart. The dark organ stops.
Arteries close for grief. Love leaves the barest
bones of a thought: clouds evaporate.
How the spit pools and falls to the tile.
Copyright © 2015 by Sjohnna McCray. Used with permission of the author.