Though I am 8
Though I am 8, my father is 63 years old.
He drinks concoctions of chickweed, garlic, and ordinary
pulled out of the front lawn. He blends it with
a machine that wakes me every morning.
It makes a loud growl. He is worried, I think,
he won’t make it to my high school graduation.
Outside, winter swallows my footsteps
as quickly as they are laid,
which makes me cry.
From A Night Without Armor : Poems