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Poem: “Make”

Make

By Patrick T. Reardon

In summer, the father grilled hot dogs

with his white t-shirt off, skin burning.

In fall, he tolled novenas.

After snow melt,

the whitened bones of a gnawed bird,

chaos of feathers.

Can you taste the beckoning?

In winter, the father did duties,

and in spring and year-round,

a man for every season

— for the moment in the door,

bending the mother back

for a movie kiss in a clinch

bending in on itself,

a branch twisting into soil.

Make children.

Make space.

Make believe.

The ripple on the face of the water,

song of songs.

The scratch, the itch,

amid the cyclone.

The father moved through the children

like a spacecraft through the vacuum.

In the end, he wanted out.

 

Patrick T. Reardon

12.10.19

This poem was originally published among four poems by Patrick T. Reardon in the Adelaide Literary Journal in September, 2019.

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