The Innisfree Poetry Journal

by Adam Hanover

My Father


Not a pig, not "donut munching swine,"

as a teenager once so eloquently oinked to him

while he directed traffic outside a high school.

(At least according to Froissart.)

More like an aging Schwarzenegger.

In summer, a red, horseshoe-shaped halo


ringing his sunburned scalp,

he kneels shirtless by the pine fence

in Terminator pose, preparing an assault

against the eggplant ripened on the vine.

Heavily muscled, his age-freckled arms

fill the small bushel silently,

robotically, terrifyingly.  


Inside, he kisses my mother

as she goes to the cabinet for bread crumbs.

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