ABOUT

CONTENTS

EDITORIAL

ARCHIVE

LAGNIAPPE

MAST

SUBMISSIONS

Poem
by Jen Tynes


The Delivery

My deliberate father has thrown a pencil jar across a room, an actual
jelly jar full of pencils.

My actual father has not eaten clams and does not consider doing so.

My clairvoyant father sows.

Father has dated a girl out of high school, think of the long white
sides of any house.

My dormer windows shutter.

My dedicated father longing for apples, his collar soon soaked.

When my ostentatious father comes calling the doors of Wal-mart are
always open, it is a twenty-four-hour store now.

My onward father, the buffalo.

My sexual father and I go rafting and buy a hunting bunting, a very
warm rabbit.

My sense is such that when my delicate father falls there are onions on
his breath.

My fog-headed father is cleaning out the fish tanks like a field mouse
does.

My trepidatious father was swarthy in his choice of words, the evening
started with a rope.

My understanding of my doddering father is the sound I make when I doll
myself up.

My mistreated father says what.

My saccharine father and I, we don't talk much about television, we
just watch it with the sound turned on.

My dutiful father has been neighbor to known animals.

They are facing each other across the barren field.

Or, my father stays in another room, hanging by the end of his thread.

My derisable father once took us halfway to the moon before we realized
we'd plumb forgotten our sandbags and gripping gloves back down on
earth.

My thick father stomping, make the world go away.

I do not preface any of my loves.

My wild ideas about my father devolve into nausea, knack of being the
real king of kings, orphans in their own hearts.

My perishable father does not know how to call a cab.

My delivery might be lacking but my figurative father is laughing in
the face of bankruptcy.

My father is at home.

My contestable father had both his eyes replaced and his back made out
of soda cans, a real mean machine.

My illiterate father makes me bees.

My allocation of fatherhood is based on a tenderness I feel upon
taking the last dusty Mountain Dew can from the corner of the fridge.

Without asking, my starved father and I make a conversation out of
wings, backs, and neck bones.

A palatable section of chicken feed is dried and gathered by my very
own father in spite of his loneliness.

If a finger were to materialize from the countryside and point me all
the way over.

My applicable father in one hand while the other one turns over.

Go out to the timber and find my father in a flock of merciful birds.