Daddy’s Bones

I lie in morning sleep.  I dream

I’m in my mother’s house, holding my father,

a bag of bones in my arms, blanket wrapped

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‘round his rooster foot body.

We sashay

across the screened-in porch where laundry goes

from dirty to clean. He likes the rain.  He’s light

in my arms.  I can’t see

his face, but

I know it is my dad I am holding.

 

Brenda Gaba lives in Dallas where she is a member of The Writer’s Garret.

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Published at 5:21 pm CST
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