Memory
of my nana
rocking
with an afghan
on her lap
and asking
if I see the boy,
the one she lost,
standing
by her bed
and begging
for water,
Sinatra
quietly singing.
*
Memory
of my sister
swinging
both her arms
in summer air
and squeezing
sunlight
like an orange
in her teeth,
the bees
still busy then,
flowers.
*
Memory
of the rotted oak
I’d climb inside
to calm on days
when daddy
found his rifle’s
acoustics
pleasing,
how I’d fall asleep
to flies vibrations
and wake
at night
to my name
being called—
my mother
flicking a match.
*
Memory
is a pill my
mother lost
in the drain
and her
desperate
for more.
A blue kite
blurred
into yellow—
*
Memory
of a bag of quails
dragged through gravel
and my dad
above them smiling
as he plucked
the feathers
then slit
each belly open
so the heart
could splash
inside a bucket
and darken
as the hours
fell like aphids
from the apple blossoms
and gathered
around my feet.
*
Memory
of my dad
too sick
to stand
on New Year’s Eve,
how he
reached
to find
my fingers
and asked,
if ever, I
think of cardinals
thrown
through
a window
in the dark,
a deep whistle
torn
through sky.
*
Luke Johnson lives on the California coast with his wife and three kids. His poems can be found at Kenyon Review, Narrative Magazine, Florida Review, Frontier, Cortland Review, Nimrod, Thrush and elsewhere. His manuscript in progress was recently named a finalist for the Jake Adam York Prize, The Levis through Four Way Press, The Vassar Miller Award and is forthcoming fall 2023 from Texas Review Press. You can find more of his poetry at lukethepoet.com or connect at Twitter at @Lukesrant.
