The Innisfree Poetry Journal

by Lisa Mullenneaux


It's easier. No injuries. A softness
like the orchids on my breakfast tray
beside the Earl Grey, a morning ritual,

the silkiness of Aubusson or Zegna,
the heft of invitations embossed
on heavy stock, good causes run

by people who know my name, reach
for my hand. My wife serves on their boards
with women named Nikki and Solange.

My children telephone from remote islands.
Guests break chairs and never leave.
My shoes are full of sand.

Father died in a shack down the road
from the house my mother threw him out of.
Some hitchhikers found his remains.

When sleep won't come, I watch deer
grazing our moonlit lawn, chewing the topiary.
I watch them with an anger I do not understand.

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