Thursday, 2 March 2017

A poem by Danny Fitzpatrick

Mary Jane’s Birthday

I see her still, three states away,
sagging in her sofa’s gentle jaws,
the big TV at the end of the room
competing in the gloom with the salt

light slapping off the unused pool
and massaging the ceiling's grey paint.
She sees them more these shorter weeks,
the Bali feathers of inflected sun.

The mindless screen screams her breathing,
her eighty-year ears ripping rabbits
from reality to thump the time,
slap the silver waves in place.

She doesn’t see the dust
descending to her threshed black lashes
and sprinkling the baby grand,
its lid left up since Lydia’s death.

The keys lead nowhere now.
The keys are locked,
laid away on hooks along her clavicle.

Her music’s grown hard as light
and silent as the mermaids’ psalms
bubbling up somewhere unseen.

Daniel Fitzpatrick grew up in New Orleans and now lives in Hot Springs, Arkansas, with his wife and daughter. He studied Philosophy at the University of Dallas, and his poems have appeared or are forthcoming in several journals, including 2River View, Eunoia Review, Ink in Thirds, and Coe Review. He plans to finish his first novel this year.

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