Clobbered

By Barbara Daniels

You don’t know whose deaths
will club you to the ground.
You think you do—the kind,

funny father who dithers,
dodders, dies. The teacher
who saw your secret ability.

But then it’s just somebody’s lover,
white hair rumpled, pants’ knees
torn. His death clobbers you

and you’re on the hard floor gasping.
You’re broken. But someday
loss might cast back its shining.

Sunlight you used to jump through
could crack the tiles on a slant roof
and spread like apricot jam.

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“I write to discover different kinds of truth.” – the writer