My Father in Texas
by Edward J. Rielly
I was told he went
to Texas once, my not-yet
father. A young man still
on his father’s farm, before
he married, had children, worked
hard at a farmer’s life, grew
old before he was old, died.
That Texas trip left no documentation,
no journals, letters, not even
a reason. I would have asked
him if I had known before
he died, but the trip surfaced
only later, in conversation with
an older cousin whose mother
was his sister, and who knew
at least the where if not the why.
Such a strange aberration in my
father’s very practical life.
My cousin had no reasons either
and, her mother dead, the answer
remains unearthed, a buried secret
in the fields that, year after year,
he plowed and planted.
Home
by Tom Fallon
Home
Reflection from Andrew Wyeth’s
painting, “Christina’s World.”
I cannot make it
I will try
The house far from
her on the hill,
the horizon
It is home
She lay in the grass
Slowly she dragged
her body forward,
moving inches
Stopped for breath,
arms shaking.
She lay her head
in the grass
I must try, must
get home
She raised her body
on her arms from
the grass
and dragged herself
slowly forward
Stopped, for breath,
arms shaking
A light cry from her
On shaking arms
she looked at
the house
the horizon
She thought, move
Home
A walk in the woods
by Tom Fallon
Walking, she and I,
trees flowering red, yellow, and orange
floating
to the path
along the brook flowing over mossy rocks, we turned
deeper into the woods
climbing a hill
and entered a clearing
of fallen yellow leaves
circled by yellow leaved trees in white sun light
and
she and I stood
in the glowing unearthly light of creation.
We stood in paradise.
Entanglement
by Jacqueline Moore
I am the white plastic
deli-bag you tossed
into a subway grate,
rising on an updraft.
I twirl my girlish way
along the avenues,
perch on that linden tree
outside your window.
I am your high branch
entanglement with soul,
your will-o’-the-wisp
out of reach.
Snug in my tree crotch,
I sag and shrivel
and yellow in your sight.
Forever.