Bronze Dragon
It’s a winged trinket; he bought it for our son.
An early Valentine’s Day present from one without
A father to a smaller version of himself. A miniature
Of might and fire you can almost touch, emoting
In red puffs; its angry mouth a vessel molded from
A heartless breast. The wingspan crests upward, wide
Across; the texture of feathers muted thanks to the bronze
Paint. It wished to be a warrior but the artistry weighs
It down. Now it will attach itself to a post, just be
A figurine or a plaything to a child. Ghosts
Of what could’ve been glide in the air, but it’s late
And plans cannot be changed. I’m dressed; I’m making up
My face. Laying blood red roses on the table, he complains:
Twenty-five fucking dollars for flowers, he cries.
They’ll die in a week, and they don’t even fly.
Talking to My Father’s Urn
Some of the things I say
are I’m sorry, I should have tried harder,
and how could I be
so stupid as to choose a container,
sealed, without opening, so I can never
touch and feel what remains, even if
bony and broken
sharp and shattered
cutting and jagged
piece by piece
I know you wanted more for me
or at least better, I say
and you know—somehow
without ears you hear the truth
through the tears and you know
that I mean him
You know I am sick
You know I can’t leave
Some of what I say is an apology
You without eyes, square and golden
You shiny and pearl-like
You a metal box
You who used to be
gray, round in the belly
joined at my hip
for breakfasts and Seinfeld
and nine-thirty movies back when movies
required a car ride and tickets
Me telling you I’d never change
my last name, and I haven’t—I haven’t—
some of what I say
comes out in a whisper, and you hear
without ears
my words fractured and blistered, you listen
and seethe from the dust
of your trap you are reaching
for me—You without eyes
who wishes I could see
He did it again,
I confess, as I stare at the top
of the dresser, and I know you
can hear, without ears you can
listen—listen and grieve—with no legs
to beat back what I lay
at your feet and I’m sorry, I say
Some of the things I say are
dark and plaguing for a father to hear
You without arms
to stretch and cling to my shoulders
You without hands
that can ball into fists
that can solve all my problems
that can save me from this
I came here for confession
The dresser, my altar
You next to Christ’s statue
near my bras and my flannel
You staring from a place of
flat polished goodbyes
waiting for me, to show up and kneel
and vomit my story
and there’s nothing you can do—
your gold is fading—as I
bow down hair in a bun and my God
my heart breaking.
previously published in Pembroke Magazine.
Gillian Thomas graduated from New York City’s Hunter College with a degree in English and Theater. Thomas’ work has been featured in such journals as Blue Unicorn, The Mid-Atlantic Review, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Gargoyle, Ligeia Magazine, Pembroke Magazine, and more. She lives with her husband, son and 2 barking Miniature Schnauzers near Washington, DC. You can find her at gilliansalwayswrite.com.