Father Benides
Father Benides touched me in my special
place when I was eight. Then he put
his little man—like the neck of a goose
tethered to a telephone pole—to my forehead.
Families locked away in their houses—
drained swimming pools, deserted
runways, the flooded river. Everyone
is the way they are. I think
I laughed—as if I knew where I was
going, as if my shadow jogged on
before me. It’s not well to laugh
at another man’s misfortune. Father
Benides only smoothed my hair—I stared
at the chips in the ceiling. My conscience
is clear as regards having done
my duty. It’s his anger I envy most
today; his anger and his directness.
Tweet
About the Author
Adam Day’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in the American Poetry Review, Guernica, Kenyon Review, Gulf Coast, Indiana Review, and Antioch Review, among others.
Related Articles
Julie Carr, Grief Abstracts
Keep in touch with Boston Review
