A poem
Published with Tether’s End Magazine, 2021
I tried not to let my father’s blazing,
my father’s brilliance,
blind me beyond belief.
Keeping little trophies of average any-days
in my palms, I smiled when I could do
little else. I listened to the lolling of lazy water
and the stubborn hum of insects in June
and to your sweet harp playing.
Even when confronted with the gross majesty
of godliness, I didn’t pale.
I ran as much as legs could run,
I gave it my all.
I tried not to let the damp, dingy not-at-all,
the perplexing pallor of death consume me.
I opened my hand, January snow and form,
to see those little trophies, those images of us,
and me and my childhood face sticky with fruit.
Whether I remain cloaked in a dirge, neighboring Hades or
wreathed in my father’s amber light or
the sound of Sunday songs,
I know it wasn’t all bad.
Holly Eva Allen 