My Father Ate Robins
Born in an honest to God log cabin
on Michigan’s Upper Peninsula
the youngest of seven children
in his mother’s second marriage
after she shot her first husband
in North Carolina for having another
family. His death in the hospital pushed her
to quickly answer an ad for a wife
placed by a French-Canadian lumber-
jack named Henry, my grandfather, who left
his family to fend for themselves while he
worked the lumber camps. Finally left all-
together when dad was 17. The hearth
always had a stew pot. They ate what they shot.
Last evening, while our reticent son
visited, a Luna moth fluttered into
the glass of our living room window.
Such moths, I am told, mean new
beginnings, a quest for knowledge
and truth. Their only job
procreation. For this, they are blessed
with no mouths. Silent,
stealth bomber shaped lime-green
wings made to avoid detection,
tapping over and over—
its purple headband, its false eyespots
on the clear pane trying
to get to the light
as I asked my son who he was dating.
I will tell you when you need to know.
Mary Ray Goehring is a snowbird traveling between her Central Wisconsin prairie and the pine forests of East Texas. She has been published internationally in journals and anthologies such as The Path To Kindness: Poems of Connection and Joy, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Blue Heron Review, Bramble, Your Daily Poem, The Rye Whiskey Review and others.