How do we do it? Sooner or later, we run out of words. What we gave is not taken back; what we wanted to give is given, or forgiven. I haven't been in the basement myself for weeks, and I am afraid that I left a light on. Perhaps a cigarette is burning a carpet that has been in the family for years. Our lives are rich, hearts are deep in debt. You sing to a full house of broken glass. It has been raining for six years, though off and on. The room is empty of violins. What can I give to one who does not have everything? Reprinted with permission from Karamu, Vol. IV, #3, February 1976 Copyright © 1976 by Paul Dickey

POTTED PLANT by Paul Dickey

My father and I in the waiting room lit cigarettes, holding the smoke in the heart, not telling anyone. Near the county school Dad taught, near the family's wheatlands, every blade is in the hands of God. Today the tares grew in our voices. Black birds perched on the wires over the homeplace, eavesdropping on the anonymous snowflakes I breathed to my sister over the phone. "Tonight Mom starts into extra innings." Now the doctor allows us to go up. Dad carries a potted plant, as though some Willie Mays had made the catch. Reprinted with permission from Kansas Quarterly, Vol. 12, #1, Winter 1980 Copyright © 1980 by Paul Dickey

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