| Natasha Trethewey - Poetry |
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Fouled
From the next room I hear my father’s voice, a groan at first, a sound so sad I think he must be
reliving a catalogue of things lost: all the dead
come back to stand ringside, the glorious body
of his youth—a light heavy weight, fight-ready
and glistening—that beauty I see now in pictures.
Looking into the room, I half imagine I’ll see him
shadowboxing the dark, arms and legs twitching
as a dog runs in sleep. Tonight, I’ve had to help him
into bed—stumbling up the stairs, his arm a weight
on my shoulders so heavy it nearly brought us down.
Now his distress cracks open the night; he is calling
my name. I could wake him, tell him it’s only a dream,
that I am here. Here is the threshold I do not cross;
a sliver of light through the doorway finds his tattoo:
the anchor on his forearm, tangled in its chain.
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