by M.P. Powers
The wet sound of a violin floating
around the dark room.
A soft light bleeds on the edge
of the forest, the trees
shuddering in their dark bodies.
And I can see nothing
else tonight but my own thoughts.
I splash some Chilean wine
in a pickle jar, leaf through my papers.
And then it comes. The voice
of a little girl, or the pilgrim
soul of one, crying for her father.
She is out among the trees,
And for months it's been going on,
maybe even years.
The same terrible words: "Why
are you doing this to me?
Daddy?" I scratch out a couple
feeble sentences, splash some more
wine in the jar. And sit here
like I aways have, paralyzed
by the dread
forces in me, waiting on the wolves.