Diaspora Sonnet 26
The old men drink their spritzers and gossipunder awnings. Red hued and blustery,
like two roosters on the side of a road.Skyward they crane their necks and laugh, sometimes
they wonder about kings and future kingsand how the muscles peer from their taut skin.
Laugh lines or frown lines. My father can’t pickwhich. His wrinkles pick their own trajectory.
Afternoons lack the luxury of stars.The heat unreels like news from the speaker
perched high on the refrigerator. Stuckamid the buzz of insects and static,
the mind repairs itself with sound. Fatheramong friends, talks story. Makes himself found.
Diaspora Sonnet 27
My father’s rifle is a house of sorts.Its nerves are blunted, cold beneath the steel.
And rooms echo with reports of noise. Loudand boisterous hail stones? Not bullets. The thing
we flee from? Rain and nature? The riflemakes…
You're reading a preview of
The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, September/October 2022