to the father of the drowned child

by Michael Daley

 

Years ago I was in someone’s car late at night.

Saddened by the party, both of us put out our heads,

out two windows as the car sped

the only street on an island and screamed

loud as we could, into night fields, hawks, mice,

sky clear, dripping stars, and we,

we young innocents, families who’d raised us

gone to bed, we were sad.

What was so important?

Moonrise and we went on screaming.

What in the world mattered so much?

Michael Dailey.jpg

Michael Daley

                                                   contributor, 2018 third edition

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Michael Daley's poems have appeared in APR, New England Review, Hudson Review, Ploughshares, Rhino, North American Review, Gargoyle, Writer's Almanac, and elsewhere. Awarded by Seattle Arts Commission, National Endowment of Humanities, Artist Trust, and Fulbright, his fourth collection of poetry, Of a Feather, was recently published. He lives in Anacortes, Washington.