I ate nothing but apple slices & eggs,
hard-boiled, lightly salted. It was the summer
of forgetting. The summer of scrubbing my tongue
until it bled. Trying to get that taste out of my mouth.

It Was the Summer

the first time i heard cicadas, singing to one another in the dark
canopy of trees i thought it was my father snoring,
the heaviness of his sleep shaking the walls
between our bedrooms & i thought he was alive then, thought
we were there home, only. 

Somewhere My Father

I am filled with this desire to expose my body to that light. A compulsion to wake it, despite this loneliness & that cold & the quiet ache in the backs of my knees.

Litanies of Wonder

Leaning out of the open window to feel
the chill of night air breathing on your skin.  
Your chest is heavy, & the stars are being buried
under cover of cloud as we speak. The distant sky
is humming with oncoming rain.

Where You Will Find Her

The sun softens me as I drive in the opposite direction
of where I am supposed to be going. They’ve torn down the first
house I ever lived in, somewhere out near the beach in Kihei.
I have no memories, only photographs: my father, not yet bald

Photographs

On most days, my father wakes early
to turn the heat on, the scent of warmth
overtaking the home, masking the stench
of last night’s burnt dinner.

Domesticity

i have been driving for miles
& miles, always this back & forth
between us.    i want to tell you
that the yellow flower-weeds
have started growing
in walkway cracks
again

In the Index of My Days

in the front yard, the tree-house
my father built with his tired
hands, the door creaky &
a missing floorboard here or there.
i remember watching as he fell
from the fifth step of the ladder,
& my mother’s laughter

Michelle DeLouise-Ashmore

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