portion of the artwork for Meredith Davies Hadaway's poem

Miles Away
Meredith Davies Hadaway

I last saw my father on Christmas Day.
He carried a tray of Bloody Marys.
He was whistling, the way he did at tollbooths.
Then he disappeared.

He carried a tray of Bloody Marys.
We all gathered in the living room.
Then he disappeared.
Shooting stars, they say, are really bits of rock.

We all gathered in the living room.
Something flickered at the top of the tree.
Shooting stars, they say, are really bits of rock.
Three weeks later, miles away.

Something flickered at the top of the tree.
A shower of light, the squeaky breath of pine.
Three weeks later, miles away.
The night he died, my brother saw a shooting star.

A shower of light, the squeaky breath of pine.
Whistling, the way he did at tollbooths.
The night he died, my brother saw a shooting star.
I last saw my father on Christmas Day.



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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 50 | Fall/Winter 2017