Issue 14
All You Can Tell

All you can tell is that someone
must have said, Smile, and I did
squinting out into the gray air
as if it were bright, but my father
presses his lips together seeming
to brace for something I couldn’t see.

Behind us, a lone hydrangea completes
the picture as though putting its arms around us.
It has no blossoms. The full flourish
of its leaves hides the complicated twists
of its branches.
                          And neglect has put
this crease you see through my father’s heart,
so, now, it folds and closes like a card.