by Annie Powell Stone
Dad was on the couch, mostly
starving to death in front of us
cancer, stage IV
(for this type, many don’t catch
the earlier stages, and of course
there aren’t later ones)
we hung pinecone bird feeders close
to the house, bringing Nature near
when he couldn’t go out
we talked about our shared
favorites: the praying mantis, female
cardinal, blue herons, black cats
we talked about Chris Christie taking a swing
at the Bully, about what the hell would make someone crazy
enough to walk into North Korea
we talked about how to take care of mom
where to find the passwords,
who to trust
we talked about the final moment
and how I might not make it
(I did, he waited)
we talked about how a summer would never
be enough time, as the days stretched out
my son, his namesake, waited in the cherry tree
Annie Powell Stone (she/her) is a fan of peanut butter toast. Her poetry has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She lives on the ancestral land of the Piscataway and Susquehannock people with her husband and two kiddos in Baltimore City, MD.