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(PROSE POETRY)

2 POEMS

​JULIA GERHARDT

​My Best Friend’s Father (A Haibun)
 
is gone & the world has not yet learned its mistake. In a myriad of senses & swift moments, he appears between my cursory ways of living…with a reprimanding, empathetic voice, he begged me to let go of Marcella’s hand, when we were having too much fun.  There were bedtimes to be kept.  Pictures of makeshift haunted houses, Marcella & I wore masks of wrinkled, old women. Dressed in a future we were not yet afraid of, he pretended to be scared.  He was not scared then, not yet.  Now, we are all afraid.  Hiking up mountains, I sense him, leading the way through thick forests, the trail mix in his bag bouncing, drums a subtle, familiar tune.  I once followed behind him, ready to pick out chocolates & spit out cashews. Wherever we were, when it neared the end, I grabbed Marcella’s hand, to play a little longer. So
                                                                                                                                                                                                                           why did I never
                                                                                                                                                                                                          think to grab his hand just once
                                                                                                                                                                                                                     when he was so sick? 

22 & wanting (A Haibun)
 
I want the job that lets me travel. The community that makes me feel good, wholesome things.  I want all my loves on an island so I can stay warm.  I want my mom and sister in a cabin on a mountain in Big Bear, where we piece together our slivers of gratitude and parse out our pain.  No one will know us, but campers by the lake will talk big rumors.  They will tell stories of us that make them shiver & huddle.  We will laugh, sip hot chocolate & never speak of my father.  I want pages of my stories filling the bottom of an old desk drawer I misuse as a hamper.  I will scrape words from the bottom of the drawer and sprinkle them into the tub, bathing in the warm scent of a book.  I want to stop crying over Silvia Plath’s “Daddy.”   I want to be held and never say another word.  I want all my friends in the one diner we all know.  I want to be the space in between the leaves & for an unknown city to feel like home.  Twenty-two,
                                                                                                                                                                                                                             I eat dried mango
                                                                                                                                                                                                                        until I make myself sick
                                                                                                                                                                                                                         sweet rubber, tight jaw. 

Julia Gerhardt is a writer from Los Angeles, now living in Baltimore. She was nominated for the Best Microfiction Anthology 2020 and Best Small Fictions Anthology 2020. She has previously been published in The Airgonaut, Cease, Cows, Literary Orphans, and others. Her work is forthcoming in the fresh.ink, Moonpark Review, Okay Donkey, and Club Plum. She is currently working on her first novel. You can find her at https://juliagerhardtwriter.wordpress.com/
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