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  Tension Literary

John Grey


Barry's Story

The old man used to come home
laughing from the bar,
on his arm, a woman from the mill,
Rita, Jenny, Ruth,
maybe those were the names,
so many, so alike,
with makeup caked on thick, lips Ketchup red,
and sweaters and slacks so tight
their bones clapped when they walked.

I knew nothing then about widower fathers
and women from the mill.
Why the rush to be alone?
Maybe they told jokes behind their hands.
Or smoked two or three cigarettes at a time.
They could have even stolen
more than a sip or two from the liquor bottle.
But, whatever it was, it couldn't begin
until I was in my room,
the door closed tight behind me.
​
He'd be impatient to get me off to bed,
what with his shirt half unbuttoned,
red stains on his cheek,
and Rita, Jenny, Ruth already panting
like a cow just given birth.
Tension mounted with each of my
footsteps up the stairs.
My father's look was like a wind from behind,
blowing hard against me.

Picture
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Shift, River And South, and Flights. Latest books, Bittersweet, Subject Matters, and Between Two Fires are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Rush, Writer’s Block, and Trampoline.

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  • Issue III: Resistance
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