Fine-toothed margins reddish brown
Most
there cover their faces
Crows on the path to sea
They see my father his neck out
The litter sets down on the spot
Go comfort him
my mother says
Telephone slippers
pajamas and robes
I don’t think I can make it
Black-toothed hairy
the phone begins to ring again
as running through paths
we all say Dad you’re invited
Blossoms to dust They see
him coming
I feel strongly somewhat intoxicated
I think that I should stay
Gray-green ash peachleaf and plain
my father might as well hang up
The telephone rings
They see him coming
The winds the temple the flock of
crows at the boat
He draws a breath
slender path down to sea
TV on its lowest setting
I tell my mother Dad’s still angry
She says she
understands
Gold floor lamp and
magazine stand Everyone here
will be disappointed
The assassins arrive intoxicated
drooping toward ends
furrowed dark dark
midrib
Throw it away tribune my father
had once defended
He remembers another
childhood then Where is he
His hair unkempt his face
dusty worn by anxiety
A similar purplish tinge
my mother and sister
shake her heads Throw it away
Veins on the undersurface pale green
pendulous
stretching his neck out from the litter
a sight to make
all Romans shudder
His head his hands
blossoms dropping
irregularly The rest of us
are killing him
Cawing lustily
his other childhood by the shoulders
not my mother’s face
but an image of his own soul
Dad you’re invited
Greenish-gray tinged with red
my sister still searching Black willow
are you a doctor
He touches his lips to the napkin
The temple the wind
predators against the railing
Mother my father’s still angry
The head and hands
are brought to Rome Semi-
evergreen an image of
my father’s soul
He touches his lips
to the crows at the window not
my mother’s face
Where is he
He removes his glasses
grayish blossoms
dropping irregularly
The telephone rings
everyone listens
My mother my sister I too
all of us must
be killing him sleeping bags out
on the living room floor
Shady path to sea neck
out his sixty-fourth year
Forgive her Why didn’t she see
the crows at the window
Mother why didn’t you
see
The telephone rings he might as well
hang up
Never-
mind each of us is killing him
Tinged with red his hair
unkempt
my father’s head and hands
no image
I am sure
Michael Homolka’s poems and essays appear or are forthcoming in publications such as Denver Quarterly, Parnassus, Ploughshares, Southern Humanities Review, The Threepenny Review, and Witness. He grew up in Los Angeles and works in book production in New York City.