My Beautiful Family
       

I stood watching a whole flock of dark birds
winging this way—

squawking as they rowed,
steering to avoid me.

Beyond lies Lamberton Creek, August slow
and flat. Not a ripple or rill.

And what is this air fragrant
with berries, ripened, fallen,
and the fat ears of corn in fields,
not to mention the tomato
            hanging low, a gash chewed out?

That she passed away, no one
thinking to tell us—
                          try to pretend, now,

this isn't an insult,

that our time together
wasn't an illusion, a television show
of a family at Thanksgiving—
                              the turkey carved from cardboard,
mashed potatoes made from dryer lint.

Mystery of a singer near, in the white oak,
identity unknown,
                                        clear line of elegy,
each note a dark pearl.

Tweet
Copyright © 2020 Patricia Clark All rights reserved
from Cave Wall
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission