Her Father Must Be A Skywriter

Her hair color was inconsequential
except that it was his cast.
She lived, always looking up,
waiting for his love to spew out a frothy clue.

There was no foolishness.
He pulled the lever to release foam,
turning or dipping to make a word.
To her it was gospel. The book of him.

The stories he told, she inhaled as air.
He took all the lessons about pain, loss,
great art: spelled them out carefully for her
against the edge of the world.

by Mary Jane Nealon

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