My inheritance is an empty house
My father is stumbling around in the basement again.
I can hear the soles of his black leather wingtips
Skimming across the concrete floor.
What is he doing down there
At the hour of the night when
The world tires of itself
And the stars are lost in the clouds.
I hear my father mumbling.
He does not remember where
He keeps the past. Does he forget
The day we buried it with mother
Then watched the grass grow over?
I lay awake listening to my father’s sighs,
Study the moonlight drowning dust on my sheets.
I drift towards sleep curled beside the woman
Who might love me one day. Her hands
Inching towards mine while she dreams
Of a basement lying still and hushed.
The breeze lifting the edge of her nightgown.
Her breath pooling in the night.
Poetry by Foster W. Donnell
Fall 2024 Poetry Contest Winner
Foster W. Donnell is an emerging poet who lives in Los Angeles, California. He is currently enrolled in the Writers’ Program at UCLA Extension, where Rick Bursky is his instructor. A data analyst by day and a poet by night seems to strike a good balance at the moment. His work has appeared in Southland Alibi, Harbor Review, Unbroken Literary Journal, and Amsterdam Review. He was born and raised in Dallas, Texas.
