Photo by J. R. Korpa
Father
Lauren Scharhag
I wish my father had told me rain.
I cling to the memory, the first memory,
of standing by the sea, and him inviting me
to taste the waters. What do you taste? he asked.
Salt, I said, and that was the beginning
of knowing that Earth wasn’t really earth.
Why couldn’t he have done that
with the burning sunset, why couldn’t he
have done that with the snow,
encouraging me to taste
fire and ice.
Why was the only tender bit
of father tinged with salt,
something undrinkable,
and still I thirst.
Lauren Scharhag
I wish my father had told me rain.
I cling to the memory, the first memory,
of standing by the sea, and him inviting me
to taste the waters. What do you taste? he asked.
Salt, I said, and that was the beginning
of knowing that Earth wasn’t really earth.
Why couldn’t he have done that
with the burning sunset, why couldn’t he
have done that with the snow,
encouraging me to taste
fire and ice.
Why was the only tender bit
of father tinged with salt,
something undrinkable,
and still I thirst.