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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
September 12, 2014
weekends and cigarette smoke by kathleenfergie. "The author writes about feelings, which are wordless things, and makes them coherent, as if emotion is her native language." (Suggesters Words)
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Literature Text
I knew my father in weekends and cigarette smoke
the two cases of Budweiser he shared with a friend
more often than I wanted him too
I knew what it tasted like because I used to drink it
out of a child size Maple Leafs novelty mug,
coveted by my siblings and I
I remember my tip jar that had been a joke
because I knew my way around twist offs and bottle openers;
the plastic yellow cup, wearing a card reading "tips,"
only housed dimes and nickels
until I got a toonie from TJ because "I was pretty"
I also remember the car ride after those two cases
where I, at age ten or eleven or twelve, didn't know if I was
going home to see my mom again
the car swerving back and forth as the two men in the front
laughed, my hands gripping the seat belt and cup holder
I knew my father in late night walks to the Little Man store
or the Price Choppers,
my brother and I fighting over who got the cart
I knew him in pennies strewn around the apartment,
waiting to be found like easter eggs and counted,
the prize being a chocolate bar for me or a Coke for Russell
he was the Maple Leaf Gardens chair, the pull out couch,
the miscellaneous box of lego, the stamps in the closet
the packets of pudding eaten off of expensive china when he
didn't get around to doing the regular dishes,
the dozens of hockey books given to him for father's day, christmas,
his birthday, knowing he would read every single one
these days I know my father in uncomfortable hugs and
yearning for what could have been
the things I haven't told him, the things he doesn't deserve to know
the Tims cards as presents, or a 20 if he can spare it
I know my father in quips about my mother and sister, people,
the world, or anything else he can get his hands on
and yet there is the part of me that is still the little girl
who sobbed her eyes out the day my mother picked me up from the
babysitter's and told me that I had a new home,
the girl who spent her fifth birthday party without her daddy
some days I know that little girl more than I know my father
the two cases of Budweiser he shared with a friend
more often than I wanted him too
I knew what it tasted like because I used to drink it
out of a child size Maple Leafs novelty mug,
coveted by my siblings and I
I remember my tip jar that had been a joke
because I knew my way around twist offs and bottle openers;
the plastic yellow cup, wearing a card reading "tips,"
only housed dimes and nickels
until I got a toonie from TJ because "I was pretty"
I also remember the car ride after those two cases
where I, at age ten or eleven or twelve, didn't know if I was
going home to see my mom again
the car swerving back and forth as the two men in the front
laughed, my hands gripping the seat belt and cup holder
I knew my father in late night walks to the Little Man store
or the Price Choppers,
my brother and I fighting over who got the cart
I knew him in pennies strewn around the apartment,
waiting to be found like easter eggs and counted,
the prize being a chocolate bar for me or a Coke for Russell
he was the Maple Leaf Gardens chair, the pull out couch,
the miscellaneous box of lego, the stamps in the closet
the packets of pudding eaten off of expensive china when he
didn't get around to doing the regular dishes,
the dozens of hockey books given to him for father's day, christmas,
his birthday, knowing he would read every single one
these days I know my father in uncomfortable hugs and
yearning for what could have been
the things I haven't told him, the things he doesn't deserve to know
the Tims cards as presents, or a 20 if he can spare it
I know my father in quips about my mother and sister, people,
the world, or anything else he can get his hands on
and yet there is the part of me that is still the little girl
who sobbed her eyes out the day my mother picked me up from the
babysitter's and told me that I had a new home,
the girl who spent her fifth birthday party without her daddy
some days I know that little girl more than I know my father
Literature
if i hadn't had the drunk luck to meet you
i’d have married every bedside witch from here to east dallas
i’d have glistened like a worm to their mescaline psalms
i’d have mired in sinuous wineskin, repentant spectra
i’d Om along in cooing groups, babble with freethinkers
all my endeavors would be gas station derelicts
all of my wrongs would be quasi-continuous
even the over-sought moon would protest
and i wouldn’t recognize one half of the universe
Literature
Visitor
There is a ghost doing handstands on my front lawn,
wrist-deep in fresh soil. Her hands are birds
in flight.
It's late, but no one comes to take her home.
The pale moon offers a silver smile -
the clouds disapprove.
Too tired to dream, she buries her legs in sky.
Tonight she is invincible, untouchable,
this frail girl beneath the stars
this death in light.
-
There is a ghost doing handstands on my front lawn,
falling to her white knees. Her stare is a pane
of glass.
The eyes of the living are often murky but
the eyes of the gone
are windows.
Literature
When It Rains
I think of you, when it rains.
Don’t you remember
The fickle breezes
Spattering droplets in our faces,
How a great gust carried off your Donald Duck umbrella
And we chased it,
Across the square, across the park,
Where it finally caught
In the rosebushes.
One of the ribs was broken
But I laughed
And laughed because it made Donald’s tail droop,
Until you were laughing too.
I don’t know how we didn’t even
Notice that my hands were bleeding from the thorns
Until we were halfway home.
You asked me if it hurt—
Of course it did,
But it didn’t matter—
Besides, I just can’t cry with raindrops running d
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my parents split up when i was four. i've probably written about it on my old dA account, but i don't think i have anything here, but this just kind of happened and i'm kind of a wreck rn. okay. cool. it kind of sounds like he's dead in this one but he isn't, he's still very much alive, but i haven't spoken to him in months, so idk. but yeah.
© 2014 - 2024 kathleenfergie
Comments49
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I was two. I have no memory of my parents living together or even liking each other.
But I remember those dad weekends. The sense of empowerment then shame i felt from the tantrums I would throw because I knew he would never ever spank me. The bewildered look in his eyes when he looked at me and realizing that he had no idea what to do with me because he didnt know me. Most of all i remember those hellish rides home on sunday evenings when he took me back to my moms house..
But I remember those dad weekends. The sense of empowerment then shame i felt from the tantrums I would throw because I knew he would never ever spank me. The bewildered look in his eyes when he looked at me and realizing that he had no idea what to do with me because he didnt know me. Most of all i remember those hellish rides home on sunday evenings when he took me back to my moms house..