Friday Poem

The Light Above the Grass

I wake up in the morning
And think

People are alive
Making things, children

And apps, they
Are running to one

Another and then my arm
Falls asleep.

Most of the men
Who did not exactly know

They were my father
Are dead

And so

My father keeps


Both my sons are sleeping
At their mom’s apartment.

I can’t always feel
My legs

But I don’t want to tell

Anyone. I’m so afraid
Of everything.

When I called Mary
to ask her how Ralph died

I ended up calling Mary
To tell her that Ralph died.

I think I can pretend

To be a person for
Maybe only a few more years.

And after that,
The moon is just going to

Have to defend itself,
The shadows

In the tall grass are just
Going to have to learn

How to self-soothe.

My sons will just have
To learn something

About fathers
Who leave without knowing

They are leaving.
|Whether I’m here,

Not being able to feel

My face,

Or not here and my face
Is just the light above the grass.

by Matthew Dickman
from National Poetry Library