Sepia Tones
Even when pushing through mountains
with a rusty drill bit,
some children, like dogs,
don’t complain.
“I pay the bills around here,” he said.
I watched his breath go in and out.
His breath vibrated in sepia tones.
I thought about his death so many hours.
“I’ll give you something to cry about,” he said
as a splinter entered my heart.
His thick fingers tapped the adding machine
and his anger bumped into the furniture.
I hid behind the couch,
my membranes silent, my eyes closed,
concealed from the words that
sizzled around me like bullets.
I thought about his death so many hours.
Now that he’s finally gone,
I want him back.
I want to complain to his face,
like a fierce dog on a chain.
Poet Lore
Fall, 2016
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