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Security Blanket
Driving home from my parent’s house On Father’s Day. Feeling guilty For almost hugging him—for Touching his arm instead. We sit Outside while my brother cooks Hamburgers and my nephew Enjoys his new BB gun. An Extended family of flies Lands, two at a time, on every Surface—even the barrel. We Wave them away until our arms Get tired. Mom sits across from Me and she points over my Shoulder at the solitary Crow perched in a cypress tree.
He’ll be here long after we’re gone,
She says, and I notice she keeps Her inhaler close at hand now.
It’s my security blanket,
She says. I worry about her More now. And I don’t know what to Say when my brother finally
Embraces her.
Jason M. Thornberry is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at Chapman University. His work has appeared in The Stranger, Dissident Voice, Adirondack Review, In Parentheses, ALAN Review, Response, URB Magazine, and elsewhere. His work examines disability and social justice. Jason taught literature and writing at Seattle Pacific University.
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- Jason M. Thornberry
- Poetry