DAD, DO YOU KNOW
Allison Eir Jenks
There is peace at the dinner table
beneath the gothic chandelier
with three female chairs.
A child tries to sleep.
The vines out the window
are after her like snakes,
she yells father then mother--
too far down the hall to hear her
as she lays unfilled
with her father's strengths.
Mother trying to be two
down the hall
where a father was, once.
He couldn't hear my voice
calling for order in the late hours,
vines out my window like snakes
after me, vacuuming me into age.
Dad, come mend this torn wallpaper.
Carve my opinions, kill the snakes.
Intrude my life like you care.
Sit at the dinner table
beneath the lovely chandelier
in one of the three chairs,
or in the front seat of the car
next to mom.
I hear there is a safety
warmer than the face of the sun
that radiates from love among marriage?
Do you know anything about this?