It is late in the house
I grew up in, far later
than I would have been
allowed to stay awake
or sit in my father’s chair.
The half-eaten bowl
of cashews sits in front of me
like some still life, hanging in the Orsay.
The seventeen wounded nuts are
devastated at eh bottom of the
chipped, brown bowl.
The window beside me only
gives me a dark reflection
of the sad painting in front of me.
Behind the cold glass, the
winds stir the short hill country
trees like a cauldron. The rains sweeps
our porch like a crying widow, and I
sit shocked in the melancholy morning
of my childhood home.
To think, I thought my parents were concerned for my health
when clearly it was my soul they were protecting.