Dear Father
by Kelli Lage
Oceans of pulses are damp melancholy creatures. Mornings are dried crestfallen limbs. There once was a woman who knew the sun. There once was a girl who scarfed down Vitamin D. They were the same body, but couldn’t remember the other. When the woman of your hips abandons the bones of your innocence. The girl could set off a flare. The woman is already blinded and burnt in the good kind of searing way. The woman could turn around, but the sun knitted her a song. Echoes and melodies that rattle a ribcage. The girl has a lot of time to think in the dead of a boneyard winter. The girl becomes a rocket, daring herself to obliterate the woman’s view. She’ll scream, “look at me! I’ve always been here!”
Kelli Lage is an assistant poetry editor for Bracken Magazine and Best of the Net nominated poet. She is the author of Early Cuts and I’m Glad We Did This. Lage’s work has appeared in Stanchion Zine, Maudlin House, The Lumiere Review, Welter Journal, and elsewhere. Website: www.KelliLage.com.