Winter Fugue 

The world becomes singing or erasure? How my own father forgot my name. It was winter and he lived far away. He called me by his dead brother’s name. Did he know, too, I was his son?  We misspeak all the time. And then our words float away in sound. I listen to the wind batter the house. How strong it blows off the lake. It reminds me of the television at night turning to static when I was young. First the national anthem, then the signal going out. I swore I could hear voices in the static.  What did they say?  I swear off the lake I hear my father saying his brother’s name. I step outside in shorts and a t-shirt and let it wrap itself around me. We are always trying to stay standing. I hear my father calling in the wind. If I lay down the snow would cover me like a shroud. I go inside and shiver. My father’s voice is everywhere. Even silence is a form of singing. It’s as if he’s standing right beside me, then he is gone as if he was snow melting on the ground.

Sean Thomas Dougherty is the author or editor of twenty books. New poems and essays forthcoming in Craft, Brevity, Midway Journal, Poetry Ireland, and Talking River Review. He works as a Carer and Medtech along Lake Erie  seanthomasdoughertypoet.com.

A Song for Sean