Our Father
He can’t breathe anymore
he survived that war
but now he can’t breathe
The war that put itself in him
the one that found its way into each of us
and into all of us
like osmosis
which we hoped was real for studying
when we’d sleep with history books under our pillows
the night before a test
but not real for trauma from a war we didn’t fight
His war wasn’t in our history books
it wasn’t history yet
it wasn’t talked about
not at dinner and not
in our Collier’s 1950s encyclopedias
the war was in a basement chest
medals, combat fatigues, boot polish and a hand grenade-
hidden away, dusty, not forgotten
We knew better than to ask
where did the scars on daddy’s legs come from?
why does he shake at night?
and the anger-
we knew to just keep soldering through
that’s what soldiers do
But the war found its way out of hiding
and infused in us anyway
its fears became our fears
its paralysis, our own
Its paranoia drained our joy
It nearly took him away
Then one day it was ok to talk about
and the purple heart came out of hiding
and a documentary was made
showing all the ways that all the presidents
could have not ruined all those lives
but it didn’t erase the years of not talking about it
it didn’t change the ending
or the aftermath
I know we were the lucky ones
I know we are the lucky ones
and our father-
he can talk about it now
about what they did
and what he saw
and we can try to make sense of the torment
that found its way into our rearing
But he can’t breathe anymore
our father can’t breathe anymore
so the war stories
live in the spaces
between
gasps of air
that war
will never be done
and I can’t make it go away
not for me
not for him
every path I take leads back to it
But he needs air now
he only needs air
and oxygen comes in a can
Our father can’t breath and
I’m still trying to save him
A Door That Won’t Open
Like talking through a closed door that doesn’t open, I ask, are you ok over there? I come everyday to this door to listen, to knock—sometimes loudly, to get something from you, and sometimes softly just so you know I’m here, listening. Sometimes I try to look through the keyhole. Sometimes I spend hours trying to find a key that fits or a way to pick the lock. I don’t know what I hope to find. I think maybe it’s better this way. We are less likely to disappoint each other if we stay on our own sides of a door that won’t open. But how are you really doing today? What’s happening? The door is a filter through which seeps only what you want me to have. Who are you really? I can’t see what’s behind your words. I only believe you because I need to and the truth doesn’t matter. Truth is not why I’m here, only tethering. I only need you to keep coming back too. I only need us to sit here, our ears pressed against the wood, in a tenuously tight tethering.
Timber Tower
What is it with me and the logs? Why this obsession with the carcass of the beheading I ordered? You appear as though you were once an innocent tree. But we both know better. You went too far in your encroachment and now you are reduced to a mere pile of logs, a dead heap of garden ornament and I like you so much better this way.
I couldn’t take it anymore so I gave my blessing for your demise. No, no more, I said. I can’t take it anymore, I said. The black berry blemishes you left everywhere infected the whole yard with a pox, rendering it unusable. I couldn’t even look at it, let alone set foot. I was over it. I was done cleaning up your messes. Make it disappear, I said, I don’t care anymore, I said. But you didn’t disappear, you reincarnated, transformed into a shrine to yourself by which I am transfixed. A shrine I worship.
I come to you every day to see your colors from the inside out. The neat circles, fixed now. You’ve stopped aging as you weather the seasons in pieces. I watch each day take its toll on you. I see how you shine in the sun wet with dew and how you stand stoic under layers of snow and ice. Look at you now, saturated with rain. Unmoving through it all, you amount to an unflappable heap of lumber, to which I am drawn, haunted by your inevitable eventuality- a split and burn in the name of fire.
Fear
That’s what it looks like
alone
no one can find you
no one knows where to look
no one’s even trying
That’s what it tastes like
acid
chemicals that don’t work
bile in the back of your throat
That’s what it smells like
rancid
blood on concrete
That’s what it feels like
numb
But the way we learned to cry—it doesn’t make a sound
Beth Mulcahy (she/her) is a Pushcart Prize-nominated poet and writer whose work has appeared in various journals, including Full House Literary and Roi Faineant Press. Her writing bridges the gaps between generations and self, hurt and healing. Beth lives in Ohio with her husband and two children and works for a company that provides technology to people without natural speech. Her latest publications can be found here: https://linktr.ee/mulcahea.
Punk Noir Magazine 
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