By Sarah Grodzinski
I have come to rely on the air to fill
the crevices in my body.
Heavy, I drop at my father’s feet.
He half-holds me like a bag of apples,
I drip winesap, gala.
He examines me, finds my rough spots
brown holes where worms chewed through,
left me softened.
We sit up all night
stir our thoughts into tea,
until the sun squeezes up over the hill.
I’m reminded of the stove’s open eye
when dad lit a cigarette from the burner
because I hid all the lighters.
I want him to know this:
If I could find a way to escape
this whale-belly world, I would.
Sarah Grodzinski has an MFA in Creative Writing from Chatham University. She teaches writing at Lebanon Valley College in Annville, PA. She has had poems published in Off the Coast, Nerve Cowboy, Misfit Magazine, and Driftwood Press.