Poem by Steve Day
He had been digging
his four year old daughter out of the earth.
We know this because there was no choice,
witnessing him burst his straining back,
splitting spinal minor chords
of both himself, as in parent
and child, as in dead daughter.
Now he lies fixed to a frame in a crowded hospital
corridor full of ceiling dust and holes where the light
It seems even the tired sun scours
his faithful tolerance of historical afflictions.
You need to login to read subscriber-only content and/or comment on articles.