Father Death by J. Hugo

July 27, 2017

This morning, my father sent me a photograph
+++++++ of two people burning to death in their cars—
++++++++++++ twinned fires blazing the dawn

as rain slicked the highway beneath his feet.
+++++++ Nice way to start the day, he captioned it.
++++++++++++ I’ll never wash it out of my head.

I have not seen what he has seen; I have not lived
+++++++ behind his eyes, scalpeled myself into his mind,
++++++++++++ so the most I can do is watch him

clutch his gun, guzzle his whiskey, his eyes glassed
+++++++ with booze and tears—watch him the same way
++++++++++++ he watched those two burn to death:

resigned to the chaos, breathing in the smoke.


J. Hugo lives alone in southern Illinois and doesn’t consider herself much of a poet. The granddaughter of a mortician, she merely enjoys writing about her strange family.

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