My father must have loved the
early morning; perhaps he
loved the way the light folded
across the table like fresh
linen in the privacy
of an hour that no one
else wanted. He must have liked
children, because he had them,
and money, because he made
it, and work, never scorning
it. And he feared neither the
veil of life nor time’s level
gaze in the tall cool evenings
he made for himself, bathing
the children and the dishes,
caring for the floor and the
room, and the dimming of the
lamps, the coffee measured and
the plates true. And when dark touched
all the surfaces of the
world, he closed on the sudden,
invisible night, and the
shy rim of the stars at the
door that must have been blacked too.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 25, Issue 4.
Becky Kennedy is a linguist and a college professor who lives with her family in Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts. Her work has appeared in a number of journals; her poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
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