Assistant Editor Taylor Byas: In his two prose poems, “Cry” and “Dad’s Weekend,” Luke Wortley reminds us that at the foundation of parenthood lies a breath straining to be released. Whether in the NICU or in the kitchen staring into a glass of bourbon, the father in these poems is rendered helpless by fate and time. What happens in the time before a baby’s first cry? What happens when our children grow older and see us for who we really are? These two poems tell us that we can only wait to exhale.
Cry
When he’s born, there is silence and there are wires. The beeping whine of machines and the stale odor of latex. Not long after, we’re in the hot breath of the NICU, and the first scream blooms like a wound. Lightning quick: the way it unhinges my ear, undoes the surgical calm of night. I’m amazed by the use of breath, the way it careens in all of us, this storm in our son’s mouth. I marvel at the tremulous nature of his gasp, the laborious intake. Each time it delays, I freeze, delve deeper into the porous stone of my wavering heart. I take my partner’s hand, and we watch the monitor zip and undulate. I’m aware of the sudden lack of wind in the room, the cold embrace of sterile gloves as more thunder ripples from his mouth, sending us for cover as we brace for the coming quiet.
Dad’s Weekend
The boy asks his dad why he cheated on Mom. It’s Dad’s weekend, and it’s the first time the boy has been this frank. The boy is only eleven, so the dad doesn’t really answer. Instead, the dad produces a cage with one hand, extending it with a perfunctory I don’t know. Inside the cage is a twittering green parakeet. This is insufferable to the boy, who gets up and walks to his room. The click of the doorlatch dreamy and sweet. The dad, sitting there with the bird, thinks about thin bones, and wet tongues tossing over each other. Despite himself, he feels a stirring. So, he carries the cage to the boy’s door, pauses, and sets it down before stalking off to the kitchen to pour a shot of bourbon. He focuses on the carefully stacked mail on the end of the dining-room table, the closeness of the corners of paper, drinks. Sometime later, the son emerges as a full-grown man, face shimmering above a slick beard. All the while the bird is shiftily preening, shuffling through its feathers. The dad stares into the dregs of his glass, wonders how much time has passed. Then he watches the man pick up the cage and reach inside; watches the bird, its head tilting wildly, silently hop onto the man’s finger; watches the man take the bird to the window and set it on the sill before going to the kitchen, where the dad is leaning against the countertop. The dad notices that the man is crying, but the dad’s mind is clouded with drink. His skull a glittering cave. He stumbles back to the liquor cabinet and finds a second glass. Time to share, to come clean. Then a breeze comes through, and the father sees that the bird is gone, along with his son.
Luke Wortley is a writer living in Indianapolis, Indiana. His fiction and poetry have appeared or are forthcoming in Inch, Hobart, Best Microfictions, Pithead Chapel, and elsewhere. You can follow him on Twitter (@LukeWortley) or visit https://www.lukewortley.com/
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