In The Days
In the days of my father’s sweet whiskey smoke
we sat in the doorway to watch the burning.
I lusted after those bourbon-thick clouds
like a dark crescendo. An acceleration,
a desire to rust, a still rush in my stomach
to reap seeds I had not sown.
My brother sat in the cusp of the door, cradled
and always rocking, rocking and afraid to breathe.
A car might creak over the gravel. Searching.
My father’s slow predatory stalk. A lapse.
Cruel is a word with rocks in its mouth.
It was never right for us to say.
In the days after my father’s burning, even then,
he had the continual air of a man smoking.
Alexandria Petrassi studies poetry in the MFA program at George Mason University. She works as the Assistant Editor at "So to Speak", the editor-in-chief of "Floodmark", and a Digital Communications consultant. Her work has appeared in "The Seldom Review", on The American Writer’s Museum’s blog, and on Stillhouse Press’s blog, "Moonshine Murmurs".