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Linda Rose Parkes

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whenever the van pulls up

For weeks my father thrashed the animal
to make it heel –
unruly dogs must be broken.

Aunt Irene often told us how their old man
took a belt to his son,
who then enlisted at sixteen

as soon as war broke out.
The ghost of a whipped boy
walked the house of my father.

My mother, pleading with him to stop,
slowly conceded to the mercy
of having the creature put down.

But still, years later, that van pulls up:
she makes a soundless lurch towards the rap at the door

and the boxer quivers, his coat rippling sheeny
as before a beating.

My father has already left for work
so my mother is alone when

the stricken eyes beg
one last time for reprieve ...

Then the van drives off.

On this mid June morning,
a breeze lapping in from the sea
she doesn’t go for a walk.

 

Poems for this issue were selected by Katherine Gallagher

Page(s) 30

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