I thought
I heard
my father’s voice.
It caught the air
in my throat
and turned solid,
an unnamed ball there formed.
I had to release the thing:
before I choked.
It was not my dad,
and I don’t even have to turn around,
to know that.

About detangledprosereview

I am a human rights advocate with a knack for inter-contextually. I am a storyteller, a ceramists, a pan-art lover, a feminist, and a humanist.
This entry was posted in Art, California, Creative Nonfiction, Memoir, Poetic Fragments, Poetry, San Francisco and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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