Erin Britt Poetry

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I have never noticed before,

how dark your eyes can really be,

lines seeping in like water,

when you write for the first time

about our son and how you don’t

want him to grow up.

I remember the story of you

crying the night before

your fourth birthday

because you wanted to stay three

forever and across town

we watch your daddy shrink,

pants fall to his ankles like rain to a puddle

and he shuffles and shuffles ,

past the bad mantras on the wall about

living for today,

a head on a table,

a head to a chin,

shuffle and shuffle,

through air like chicken soup and urine,

through memories of big trucks and the Jersey shore,

past his grandson and the new green football,

towards the open window,

back to being small.

Read more from Gillian Kessler on Mamalode! 


About the Author

Erin Britt

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