Dreams of My Father

Poem by James E. Cherry
Illustration by Callie Wright

My father looks the same as the day he died.  

Such is the nature of nocturnal visits. Actually, 

he looks like the man who dragged eight hour shifts

of union dues and assembly lines

through the front door at day’s end, frowned

at the daily paper, grunted the six o’clock

news, whispered grace over supper

around a square dinner table. I’m at the head

of the table this time. He sits to my left

works a plate of cabbage and potatoes,

wears the same mask the day I quit

the high school basketball team in mid-season,

was caught smoking pot in the basement,

broke the promise of a college diploma

into several pieces. I offer him the roast beef

on my plate, but he says nothing, moves away

from the table and when I rise to run after him,

daybreak catches me around the ankle

leaves me sprawled beside the bed

to count drops of sunlight 

spilling from my eyes.

*Dream of My Father appears courtesy Between Chance and Mercy. Willow Books. April, 2024