I lift a dark curtain to the crown of the windowpane,
twist until the spring rod is taut across the jambs.
A hum pinches from my throat. The drape a current

my hands trace, the ribbed foam I pressed in panels

on my father’s wall. His mouth held to the small cane,
pipes and valves shifted beneath his fingers. His breath
bloomed from the bell’s open lip. Many times, I knocked

too softly at his door, spoke the low drone of complaint.

At church, he palmed the broken lobes of Communion,
offered torn morsels of the body. If he split anything
for me and my brother to share, I wouldn’t want it.

Will Russo received his MFA from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago in 2020. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and is published or forthcoming in Berkeley Poetry Review, Salamander, Newtown Literary, and elsewhere.

Appears In

Issue 11

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