Lesley Hobbs

Word Count 132

I am the child of a man with large hands—

fingers long and tapered, nails neatly trimmed 

to a blunt finish. The left forefinger bore the scar 

of a long-ago accident; I wonder if it ached 

when he signed each £7 birthday and Christmas

check. As a teen, I wished my father dead;

death is simpler than rejection. I learned

to play Chopsticks at five nestled 

between his knees; the decades collapse

each time I see a piano. The invitation

to visit confused me; I thought of him as the outline

of a silhouette, uncertain what he meant to me.

I flew twenty hours to Brisbane but couldn’t find

the will to unpack. So forgive me

if I cannot forgive; there’s little to forget.

Note: Title is from W.S. Merwin’s “A Likeness”

Lesley (she/her) is an Irish poet and artist living in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and service dog. Her work is inspired by long walks, the human condition and all things Celtic. She loves popcorn, sunshine, Pink Floyd and the ocean. Her poetry is (or will be) published in The Hyacinth Review, Querencia Press and Cirque.

You can find her on Instagram & FB: @opentoabundance | Her writer’s website is: https://lesleyrogershobbs.com/ | She blogs at: https://opentoabundance.com/