Poems & Essays

25 Jun

Buried Treasure

General/Column No Response

My son keeps his distance
and dabbles around
the corners of the house

like a squirrel sneaking pieces
of the winter tree
into the rain gutter

building a nest
where cold water drips
and he could easily fall through

My son searches for something,
his finger deep in his nose
not quite getting what he wants

I ask if he wants some dinner
but he pretends
not to hear over the video game

yet he hears his dad’s absence
like the wind picking up
and is afraid to go out at night

My son stays up later than me
quiet in his room
letting me sleep in peace

while he, like a nocturnal raccoon
digs in our trash at night
for evidence of family meals

In the morning I find holes
in his bedroom floor
where he’s dug up what we buried.

 

 

Beth Oast Williams is a student with the Muse Writers Center in Norfolk, Virginia. Her poetry has appeared recently in Lou Lit and is forthcoming in SHANTIH and Soft Cartel. A former librarian, she spends most of her time still trying to make order out of chaos.

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Articulate Babble June 25, 2018 The Sunday Miracles June 25, 2018