DAD

by Martha Ellen


Alone, lost in my 
delirium, through 
the passages of my 
recovery from traumas 
intentionally inflicted  
and accidental, from 
stealth attacks of 
smiling foes and 
foolish choices all 
my own. Though 
I cried out for my mother 
often, only once 
did I call out for Dad 
and it was simply 
to ask where he was.
It was not a cry for 
help. I knew better. 
But knowing he was near 
may bring some comfort 
even if he looked away.
I whisper to an apparition: 
I want to come home. 
I want to come home. 
Though I do not know 
where that would be.


* * * * *

Martha Ellen lives alone in an old Victorian house on a hill on the Oregon coast. Born and reared in Chicago. Retired social worker. History of social justice activism. Old hippie. MFA. Poems and prose published in various journals and online forums including North Coast Squid, RAIN, Words Have Wings and others. She writes to process her wild life.