Jul/Aug 2004 Poetry


by Christina Ranon


Something happened to my father
when dust trails from the year 1553 met
the earth's atmosphere.

We picked a distant field and laid down our bodies,
arms to chest,
because our front porch light would blot it all out.

He timed his plastic sport watch for 12:25 and closed his eyes.
When it sounded, he snapped up so you could hear bones creaking.

I asked him if his watch had died.

He looked up and said no, it's the exact right time,
but we are too human for it to make a difference.


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