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The Newspapers

How they tumbled down the snow-filled streets,

how they slept in battered vending boxes

and hung from dowels in the public library.

How my father kept the memorable ones in his closet,

among the dying shoes.

Then the power went out. The TV closed its eye

and the house felt strange in the new silence:

a hush of snowstorm.

Because there was nothing else to do,

I went upstairs to read.

In his closet, I found an old newspaper

in a language I couldn’t understand.

There he was in uniform, just below the fold—but where?

And who was that other man by his side?

I did not hear what my mother said in the kitchen

that made him throw his wine glass at her,

cutting a stain on the wall behind her head.

Let’s go to the museum, my father said,

Let’s get out of here.

He smelled of wine and sweat, familiar and good.

Newspapers fell from the clouds,

clotting the rooftops and the branches as we drove.

At the museum, a giant brain turned on a gear.

Press a button, he told me. Now try another one,

and for once I did exactly as he said.

Colored bulbs glowed on the surface,

temporal lobe, hippocampus, neural highways,

the great brain moving in the silence—

but who was that other man by his side, a rifle

propped carelessly against his shoulder?

And what had become of the gun my father held?

He was casually checking his watch.

She’s cooled down by now, he said,

but I was still pressing those buttons, I couldn’t stop.

Thoughts blinked on the surface,

bright networks of gold and blue,

the brain humming as it glowed in the vast gray room.

Back home, my mother wouldn’t turn from the stove

or look at us. The house smelled good.

I quietly stowed the newspaper with the others, behind the shoes,

then came downstairs for dinner.

She’d cleaned the stain away.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. My brain kept turning.

Pinpricks glittered like cities viewed from an airplane.

From downstairs, a muffled conversation,

then the TV changing channels

and, much later, the noise of sex.

To think he has been dead twenty years now

and she can no longer feed herself. I am 48,

typing this on a hot June night

1000 miles from there.

from The Art of FictionFind more by Kevin Prufer at the library

Copyright © 2021 Kevin Prufer
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

Published in Kevin Prufer Poems

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.