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The Forge

I remember seeing my father stop
halfway up the driveway because my tricycle
was blocking the way to the garage
and how he solved the problem
by picking up the tricycle by the handlebars
and smashing it through the windshield
of our brand new family station wagon,
his face red with scotch, his black tie
and jacket flapping with effort, the tricycle
making its way a little farther with each blow
into the roomy interior of the latest model
as the safety glass relented, the tricycle
and the windshield both praiseworthy
in their toughness, the struggle between them
somehow making perfect sense
in midday on our quiet suburban street,
the windshield the anvil, the trike the hammer,
the marriage the forge, and failure
glowing in the heat, beaten
and tempered, slowly taking shape.

—from Blood Pages, available on Amazon.

Screenshot 2024-04-21

“My father’s drinking has been the turbulent wellspring for a hundred poems.”

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