06/28/2014

Dad hawked spit at snow,
surprised he hadn’t disappeared
and north winds didn’t stop smelling
of a cop’s nightshift.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

It was really difficult for me to write a poem this short, and one without iambs and rhyme.  But I was reading a lot of haiku, appreciating its brevity and images, and its focus—the way it can imply a narrative without explicitly delivering one.  And I’d never written about my dad.  I figured it was time for him to have a turn on the page.

BIO:

Erica Dawson is the author of two poetry collections: The Small Blades Hurt and Big-Eyed Afraid. Her poems have appeared in Best American Poetry, Virginia Quarterly Review, and numerous other journals and anthologies. She is an assistant professor at University of Tampa.
MORE POEMS:

05/05/2011
'untitled', Jessica Goodfellow


03/27/2013
'from the Greek Anthology', Christopher Bakken


02/04/2010
'So much a poet he despises poetry', Christian Wiman