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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s