I picture perfect
the moon’s
abrasions,
orange over Malibu
that night.
Ocean blue and cresting
in Dad’s blurry footage
behind his father,
face painted
lentigo.
This was years
before his fall, before
he only spoke in no’s
and wa’s. His skull
intact and helmet-free,
his mouth melting
a Creme Saver, his
hands cleaning
fingernails.
I remember holding
his thin-skinned hands,
kneeling by his recliner
as he cooed
to me,
love.
These birds
that chirp
at night.
Benjamin Favero is a writer from Ogden, Utah—there he got his BA in Creative Writing at Weber State University. His writing has been published in Weber: The Contemporary West, Gulf Stream Magazine, and elsewhere. Currently he is an MFA candidate in poetry at UNLV where he reads for Witness.