He's Back Again
Steven M. Smith
“So, what wouldn’t fit in my urn?”
my father asks. He’s back again.
Tonight, his ghost smolders with the sand
swirls brushed on the bedroom ceiling.
I whisper my reply so I don’t wake my wife:
“Your nights loitering—up snapping
a towel of sweat on the ass of a stupor.
The remnants from scratching off
your soul for winning numbers.
The stained sheets of shame you
must have pulled up to your throat.
The stray shadows of your children
you kicked off the back doorstep
into thunderstorms and blizzards.
Our last embrace that—for the life
of us—I can’t even recall.”
January 2026
Steven M. Smith
“So, what wouldn’t fit in my urn?”
my father asks. He’s back again.
Tonight, his ghost smolders with the sand
swirls brushed on the bedroom ceiling.
I whisper my reply so I don’t wake my wife:
“Your nights loitering—up snapping
a towel of sweat on the ass of a stupor.
The remnants from scratching off
your soul for winning numbers.
The stained sheets of shame you
must have pulled up to your throat.
The stray shadows of your children
you kicked off the back doorstep
into thunderstorms and blizzards.
Our last embrace that—for the life
of us—I can’t even recall.”
January 2026
