Size / / /

Twenty years later, you return

Along that path in the woods

To my grandmother's house,

Planning to try us again, and

Knowing the woodcutter is

Gone because the trees are gone.

But we have seen worse wolves

At the door since your time:

Impending foreclosure, bad mortgage,

Angina, chronic back pain, rotten molars,

My son caught with a hirsute hand in the till.

Your gray look is familiar to me.

Calling to Grams in the kitchen,

I guffaw in your face. You just

Stand there, not knowing whether to smile

Or what to say. But yes, old friend:

I always knew who it was in that dress.

Come on in and have a drink.

Amy Cummins teaches English at Fort Hays State University in Hays, Kansas, USA.
Current Issue
19 Feb 2024

That was Father—a storm in a drought, a comet in the night. Acting first, thinking later, carried on not by foresight, but on luck’s slippery feet. And so we were not as surprised as we should have been when, one warm night in our tenth year on the mountain, Father showed us the flying machine.
The first time I saw stone and Bone in ocean
This is it. This is the decision that keeps you up at night.
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