Trying to Get Out In Memory Like the egg snagged in a wicker basket of limbs, broken and soggy, yolk seeping its gold through each twig, Like my heart slumped over its barrack of ribs, each pound of fist a tired motion unfelt,
With barbed spikes hardening from soft fingers of green, the cactus bruising with sun, the valley oozes with dusk, winter-pressed and oxidized bronzed, We are all stuck, heart still beating, willow clogged with sunlight, cactus suspended in century-old growth, As are you, my dear father, cast and still held in that sacred place between the closet that still holds your coat and your daughter Who sits here, writing this poem.
Jean Howard
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