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?
contributor, 2018 third edition
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.