“Faucet” and New Poems by J. M. Thornberry

Jason M. Thornberry’s writing appears in the Los Angeles Review of Books, JMWW, Letters Journal, North Dakota Quarterly, and elsewhere. He overcame a traumatic brain injury. Relearning to walk and speak, Jason earned an MFA in Creative Writing from Chapman University. He teaches writing at Seattle Pacific University. Twitter: @thornberryjm

Work by J. M. Thornberry has been previously featured by In Parentheses.

Faucet

He said the water won’t come until the
Faucet’s turned on, so with pencil in hand,
I twist the valve that makes the pipes go roan,
Standing back in case they burst because who
Needs mud and rust when what you want are words
To stop the muscle in your chest resting.

Here is Your Father

Here is your father, she said, and
She ripped him out, handing him to
Me like a dentist pulling a
Tooth.

I was pregnant, she said. Maybe
The last one I took with him
Before you were born. The
Photograph was rigid and

Impeccably square. I held it
Up to the light. The image
Captured them on the side of the
Road, a foot apart, along the

Passenger side of a faded
Yellow Volkswagen. That’s the car,
She said. He lived in it after
They split up. Told him to take his

Pillow, she said. In the photo,
His hair was wavy, sideburns long,
Mustache dark, T-shirt blue, hand
Hovering away from her

Stomach. I guess she wasn’t too
Far along. Pretty and young, in
A green blouse with frilly sleeves, my
Mother’s hair passed her shoulders, dark

Brown and straight. Distracted, she looked
Off into the distance. In the
Overexposed photo, my parents
Became ghosts, doused with a

Bucket of light. That little
Yellow car hovering behind
Them, a glimmering mirage. He
Was so different then, she said,

Absently turning the heavy
Black pages of the old photo
Album. My visit nearly
Over, I slipped the photo

Into my jacket pocket and
Kissed her cheek.

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