"My Almost-Daughter, My Nearly-Was Son"
Click here to listen to Chris Forhan read this poem.
Those overtime nights in the ice factory, eyeing gauges, greasing gears: that's one thing. And the hours of clarinet lessons.
All that rain that blathered on the patio, leaves
lifting and twisting, a demented semaphore. I hired myself
to crack that code, kept busy not conceiving you. I peopled
the past, got safely sad about that. I hammered together
a hut in the back of my brain to crawl inside and rest
from the labor of making it. My almost-daughter, my nearly-was son,
I was frugal, I made you wait till you grew
into the idea of waiting. See? These words hurt no one.
Chris Forhan has published two collections of poems, The Actual Moon, The Actual Stars, and Forgive Us Our Happiness. He teaches at Auburn University.
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