Anna Cates

Father

mandrake moon
in a rustling forest
a strange bird calls . . .

Father never complained of the poison mushrooms, simply moved on to the shrooms. He filled the castle with answers, cracked outrageous mysteries.

In upstairs rooms children screamed of demons in the dark. But Father hustled up those stony steps, forded impossible passes, forged by monsters who’d eat you alive like a spreading cancer.

All fathers are mortal, risk themselves on ladders, asses full of polyps.

Father always told us who we are depends on whether we break the rules like matchsticks or wild horses. We always almost listened.