The words my father never said:
his lost country. In early morning
dark, I adjust the lamp so no shadow
obscures the page, pen scratching
like mice beneath the porch at night,
my words like refugees sprinting
barren fields–urgent to nest, to
safeguard my father’s silences.
Most of his life I learned from
his obituary, facts that now scaffold
a vacant lot of parched weeds and
dandelions, yellow shivers inside dust–
maybe promise, maybe hope catches
at my throat, pulling words like father
and loss, a homesickness that provides
a temporary shelter for us.
[Originally published in Blaze Vox, October 2025]
Jennifer Mills Kerr lives in Northern California. Her poetry has been recently published in the South Florida Poetry Journal, Thimble, & Pictura. An educator for thirty years, Jennifer leads poetry workshops online and curates poems on the Poetry-Inspired Substack. Learn more at www.JenniferMillsKerrPoet.com.