Her Parents' War Poem by Peter Verbica

Everything is beginning to thaw
by the reservoir

except the green angels in bronze
frozen by the fountain.

Even the snakes at the zoo
have begun to unbind

from their knots under
the feeders at the monkey cages:

limbering up like the fingers
of Satan in search
of mice.

I am looking out over a blanket
of snow which covers the park

in front of my ex-wife's home,

its brickwork
in need of pointing.

I'm getting ready to walk
her sheep dog
with my youngest daughter.

I could never sleep on redeye flights.

Trying to wake up,
I rub my eyes,

a habit my father forever frowned upon,

in part because when he
was young,

he had worked in copper mines,

and always worried
about mixing nitroglycerin
into his eye sockets.

There is nothing
more ominous
than the clouds

which cover the hopes
of a teenager.

The red screen door opens.

It is good to see the sun
come out for my youngest
daughter.

I envelope her with a hug
doing my best to shield her heart
from exploding,

as if it were a hand grenade

left over
from her parents' war.

["Her Parents' War" first appeared in Left at the Gate,2016]