Figure

He came home smelling of smoke, and silent guilt,

a father, by default

of a violent guild,

eyes like burning embers clinging desperately to life

gleaming, lively, with that unforgettable red.

-

A hand with nervously bitten nails

reaches out with the threat of violence

puts money on the table

and leaves.

-

His shadow lingers on the wall

towering, watching, from the broken glass in one corner

to the stain on the wall

to the thoughts you thought you’d hidden.

-

Unfurled paper, lonely scrawls.

He’s gone now, but

I never knew him

at all.