shot glass
Issue # 4 May 2011
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Heather Abner

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The moon is a slice of muskmelon tonight,
and I can see my father
deftly cutting into it,
removing flesh from rind
with his filet knife.

The juice scents his hands
and the pulse points at his wrists.
I daub my fingers, and lips, and chin
with the spice of his garden.

This is my father's smell:
melon rinds and corn husks decomposing in the chicken yard,
the green snap spray of white half runner beans,
black crescents of motor oil under his fingernails,
and bluegill scales flecked like stars in the hairs on his arms.