Steven Rood © 2003 All Rights Reserved
“. . . Fast falls the eventide”
The day my father dies
a bat comes to the front porch.
It is there, dark bruise against the brick
when I arrive eight hours later.
Look my mother says. She sits on the sofa
mint green nightgown askew, Pond’s powder buffed
between her breasts, face soft, rested at last.
We’ve never had one of these before.
She is calm, curious, as if the man
who fell by their bed that morning
and couldn’t get up,
whom she could not lift one more time,
will before long walk in
from June’s sweet-smelling darkness,
brush her lips with his, drowsy bat cupped
in gentle, once sun-chapped hands.
Look, he will say,
we’ve never had one of these before.
Carol White Kelly lives with her cat in the backyard of a library in Bellevue, Washington. Her essays and poetry have been published in Duckabush Journal, The Pointed Circle, Christian Century, Crossings, Mercer Island Reporter, and the Eastside Journal.
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