turn
my father was the best man i ever met and the worst. they took one of the cars he wrecked from school to school blood and hair in the broken windshield a demonstration of why not to drive drunk. he thought that story was hilarious. when he left he came back for my brother but not me. i’d watch them drive away in his pale yellow mercedes. i turned 16 and he bought me an old volvo to drive to community college but he used my mother’s money. he was like that. we spun out in the high school parking lot, me learning stick, laughing. he swore a lot. i swore even more. i cut my hair off and got a girlfriend, we didn’t talk til i was 25. he sent me an apology, pages and pages. i called him, told him i had bought a new car. a stick shift is better. we started mailing poems up and down the coast and he got one about autumn published. when my daughter was born he said, that corolla is too small. he bought me a brand new silver subaru the car i always wanted. he drove it from san diego to oakland and arrived in the dark. he turned on its lights and tried to show me all the features at midnight. i was holding his hand when he died. the rattle choked off and that was it there was only the sound of an engine in the distance, someone taking the turn too fast. dani gabriel
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see it on me
i held her hand in the darkness on a pink queen mattress from the discount store, the one with gold edged furniture and bunk beds with painted metal frames. now we’re up in the dark coffee in an army green thermos, boots that are hard to pull on. a kiss at the door. sometimes in the pitch i can hear the train whistle. for decades now, the rush down the track. children still asleep and i’m writing this. this love. you can’t see it on me but it’s sifted all over, like fine night. dani gabriel |
Authordani gabriel Archives
August 2020
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