Father’s Death, Morning

Kevin Mosby

At the cock crow dawn

mother’s lavender brocade

shutters the sun from

the gadfly that loiters

at the cattle dung


too desiccated to reek through

her rose and honey buttered

scent. The corn rows pant

and laugh at the womanness

before them and await


father’s machine

the watering one

but know a woman’s

abrupt joggle

of a can will do today.


Grass burrs tickle her

ankle and her eye wrinkles

say her comfort in the kitchen

cannot extend to the garden

where carpets and settees


die. A titmouse scurries

past the dung and she

quakes like a woman

who knows her place and is

unsettled outside it.


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