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:

08/10/2011
'The Witch, Gretel, the Oven', Katy Gunn


11/29/2009
'Free Verse', Traci O'Dea


09/07/2011
'Definition of a Seagull', Jorge Carrera Andrade