Andrena Zawinski
IN, at a poetry reading.
(at the Zenith, Pgh., PA)
In the front room
in a big brimmed hat
in a boustierre
and bouffant skirt
a painted lady sings
suited for a street scene
in a post card glossy
her blues refrain.
Standing room only,
ears cocked for what
poetry can make of
everyday living,
this one is for the father,
dead for years.
There are tears.
In the back room
I crawl in
in on the lap
of an overstuffed chair
face nuzzled in
in the crook of the arm
in the warm of the scent
in a cushion of soft, in
in the trinity
of daddy rock quiet
in the flutter of lids
stained by night
in this place
that has been condemned
in my heart, murmuring:
Take my hand.
My palm is out.
It has an open wound.