After Leaving My Father at the Hospital on Christmas Day,

by Donna Vorreyor

everywhere I look, I see eruption. A startle
of ice cracks off a branch above my head.
A local dog goes from saunter to sprint
at the sight of a squirrel.

I have parked
beneath a tree still flush with berries,
grape-like and browned, knocked loose
by the fierce wind and exploded
into mush on the hood of my car.

Little organs.
Little clots sticky as tar.

I swipe at them with my gloves, rub
them with snow to wash away
the streaks before they freeze.

Stroke, a slow movement across a surface,
a new rowing across an old world.

Image: @aluna1 / stock.adobe.com

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