March 2013


My father

eats celery

on his deathbed

munching it hard

like meat,

warning of the

expectations of women,

admonishing me

not to let them down

as he did


the self-proclaimed ruins

of his 85 years.


Holding the celery

like a staff

he anoints

women as owls

who trick men

into snares.

Proclaims that he, like Job

in the enveloping darkness

is companion to owls,

his life

a court

of the forsaken,

awaiting Gospel,

the Advent,

for light to appear.