Only Bread, Only light


—after Pablo Neruda

They spoke so often of the dead

in my family, so routinely—like weather

or a request for milk—

that a strange thing happened.

One night my father

recalling men

who’d flown with him

in the war—pilots

who’d vanished—

wept, as one must,

and a bee lifted drowsily

from the fire.


Author: skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: