for my father
In grief, the sun flashlight white
on all that we inherit —
stories with their rinds
peeled back, a branch
grown pale and denuded,
revealing itself.
I see you walking in these woods,
left to right, and we wave
as friends do —
just a knowing raise
of the hand — before I lose you
in the sweet gum thicket.
Around us, the spring
lengthening into summer,
into openness,
and the bird woods holding
in its soft mouth
all of our conversations —
all things told,
things yet to be told.
Rachel Cloud Adams is the editor for an advocacy association and the founder/editor of the journal and small press Lines + Stars. Her poems have appeared in The North American Review, HOBART, Big Muddy, Salamander, The Conium Review, CAROUSEL, Memoir, and elsewhere. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and the author of three chapbooks: What is Heard (Red Bird Press, 2013), Sleeper (Flutter Press, 2015), and Space and Road (Semiperfect Press, 2019). She lives in Baltimore, Maryland, and received her MA in writing from the Johns Hopkins University.
Appears In
Cagibi Issue 17
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