Teresa White


Every day my father is at the front door
ringing the bell but I donít let him in.
He shivers in the winter, his hands
in the deep country of his pockets.

He grows old as the lilac blooms and dies.†
When summer comes, he stands on tiptoe
and looks in the living room window. He sees dust
under the sofa, cobwebs Iíve missed on the ceiling.†

As the years go by I want to say his name
and make a round sound, the oval sound of love,
but instead I drop to my knees and wash
the kitchen floor with Clorox, never clean enough.

Grandmother tells me the Navy did this to him.†
I French-corner the sheets when I make the bed.
I am always my fatherís child, frightened
he will shake my paperweight world,

see the snow flying as I watch everything
fall apart.

Location: Spokane Washington
Email: Whiteheart_1998@yahoo.com
Website: http://members.tripod.com/~whiteheart2/index.html
Publications: Conspire, Eclectica, Eye Dialect, Mandrake Press, Pierian Springs, Rattle, Slow Trains, Snow Monkey, Small Spiral Notebook, Tryst, Stirring, , etc.
Book: In What Furnace?
Awards: Pushcart Prize nominee

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