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Father’s Montage

Nico Pablo


The room, hushed

soft in its whiteness,

divided by these blinds.

Fruit at table’s edge. 

Rhythmic beep, metronome of 

mechanical pump.  

Focus on your father.

Smothered colorless

in the sheets.  


The flowers,

dried, can leave

the room.


Your father is leaving

on the back of a stallion,

both manes rake the air. 

The highland breeze 

stings the wound you nurse 

from falling, 

you will not ride again for some time. 

You wonder what it’s like to 

soar for a moment, lift up,

ride on the back of his saddle. 


You wrinkle your nose

at this room, what else

can you expect of alcohol

except to keep clean, 

yet there is no mud 

here to rise from,

no horse to fall from. 

You look to memory

for color, for a lack of

dependence on machines.


A sprawling beach. 

An hour after lunch, when it is 

safe to swim.

Your father wraps his shirt

around his bare head, then

charges into the waiting 

sea. How far can he

go? The clue is rippling muscle

parting the waves. 

His wingspan will rise from

the shore. It could sweep you

and you could fly.




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