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Portrait of the Father
as Gravity
by Julie Marie Wade
We
used to make little
poems:
to plummet from the
summit, to cascade from
the arcade…
Both of us dreamed about
falling
You can call her the
parapet, you can call
her the cliff,
but our separate bodies
balanced on that
precipice:
a compass, a Geiger
counter, two packs of
Swiss Miss
Like fodder for fortune
cookies—the more
remote
the body, the less its
gravitational force—so
you gave up traveling,
your salesman’s garb,
your briefcase blocking
the gate
Now the vows of marriage
work in retrograde,
& the daughter falls
beneath your radar’s
field:
every tack on the map
marks a change in
dangerous Velo-Cities
We used to say little
prayers:
for the hot & the cold,
for the young & the old…
You drew us deeper into
love’s Aleutian Arc
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