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Sample Poems by Dara Barnat

Prayer I Do Not Know

There's no one here, but me
alone. I close

my eyes and try
to remember your face,

its light, your
fingers, their light

touch, your laugh,
the lightness. I say a prayer

that is my own:
May we live

a thousand years together,
in another life.


Highway

Then he began to walk
miles on the highway, leaving

the house at dawn, wearing
a thin coat, though cold

shook the air. I know this,
because someone told me

they saw my father on I- 84
crossing a ramp that no one

was meant to cross. Drivers
perhaps thought he was

a prophet with his white
hair blending into

the snow. I never did see
my father walking. I must

write a poem to stop
him for a moment, warm

his hands, say, You're going
to get worse from here,
bring him

a thermos of tea and a new pair
of shoes, before he walks on

to nowhere, wind against
his face, until he can't breathe.



The Name of the Father


I.


Any sign of your life
was a slip of the tongue.

I did not speak your name,

as if its sounds held our pain,
and I could breathe

them into my lungs,
so they would not become

the only sounds I'd hear

in rainfall, doors slamming,
footsteps, phones ringing,

pages turning, twigs breaking.

I did not speak
your name. I did not speak

of its meaning:
Who is like God?

II.

If I did not speak
your name, where did you

exist, except

in that photograph
where I'm one month old

and our hair is the color of chestnuts?

Your face, lit
like an angel's, is watching

mine. I must have

that light inside me.
I'd love to believe

I was blessed by you.
I wish that father

to be my saint.

III.

Photographs, though, can be hidden
in closets, boxes,

drawers, to conceal

the memory of you,
your body

itself. I hid

your fading,
when the light from your skin

grew dull and your eyes

like a lost
prophet's, Job

with no return home.


IV.

I took such a deep
breath of pain, I feared

the world would turn away

if it knew.
Such a deep

breath, not to release

the pain on anyone.
Still the sounds

of your name

in my dreams. Michael.
Mi-cha-el.

Who-is-like- God.




Some Deaths



Some deaths are buried in
shame, like a gravestone
is buried in leaves. These

are the stones that no one
kneels before, not to pray,
not to clear away

debris. Somewhere,
someone wishes to watch
the stone turn from gray

to white in winter. They
imagine the name
carved in the granite,

as if in the cursive of god.
They would pass
their fingers along each

letter, scratch
the dirt from the letters
with their nails, speak

aloud to the fallen,
if shame had not buried
the dead in silence.


Shell


Our house was a shell,
smooth, quiet-

put it to your ear, it tells
you what's happened

in every ocean on earth.

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