In my father’s house
He’s restless, wants
to keep moving, flings
his forearm back
& forth & back & forth
& back to prove – to
himself; not me, I know –
he still has control.
His right hand – no longer
the dominant one. He eats
with his left – at the wrist,
it flaps in dismay, chooses
not to cooperate today.
4 thoughts on "In my father’s house"
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Touching. Visual.
I love how tightly compressed this is. Very effective.
Love the tightness and emotional tenseness.
Ugh. Jay, this poem bites deep into my own recent fears. Thank you.