Friday, October 31, 2014


artwork: ralph murre

by Wilda W. Morris

            Beginning with a line and a half from Li-Young Lee*

I was cold once. So my father took off his blue sweater.
He wrapped me in it.

I slid my short arms into the long sleeves.
Father leaned down and buttoned each button.

I was five years old
and the sweater had five buttons.

“Carry me,” I begged. “I’m tired.” Father picked me up.
As my arms flew around his neck, the sleeves flapped like blue wings.

Now I was warm
but Father was cold.

He carried me seven blocks and was worn out
when he climbed the steps to our door.

This is how I remember it.

But when I was five I was never wrapped
in a warm sweater with buttons down the front.

And I had no father.

~ first published in After Hours