July 4, 2009

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.