Original EveryPoem Studio house-voice poem.
Choose a genuine response. Counts appear only after several readers agree.
He doesn't talk about it. This is how you know.
My father's chair still faces the window where he watched the street as if expecting a delivery
My mother's hands could find a fever through a forehead, could tell a melon's ripeness
My father's workshop smelled of pine and something electrical— the ozone ghost of a drill
You are leaving. I know this the way I know weather— not from the forecast
My mother carried me before I was a person. Carried me in the dark of her own body.
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