by Don Narkevic
for I cannot remember my sins or the name of the woman they say I married in 1950. I don’t understand why I remember the date, our first, a picture show, Harvey, staring Jimmy Stewart as a drunk who sees visions of a six foot-tall rabbit. I don’t touch a drop, but I see things for what they really are. In my own reality, my children, I have pictures, they are rabbits, easily frightened by my fading memory, the fact that I am a dependent, not myself, a father no more. Father, I cannot remember my sons’ names or the names of my daughters they say I helped raise, each one a Lazarus who refuses to come out of the tomb of their selfish lives. If I had the strength I would roll up my sleeves, grab their ears and pull them out of the darkness of an enchanted black hat. But I am out of magic. For these and all the sins of my life, if you can remember them for me, I am heartily sorry for.
Don Narkevic: Buckhannon, WV. MFA National University. Current work appears in Literary Yard, Ariel Chart, and The Lake. In Spring 2022, Main Street Rag will publish a novella of poetry entitled, After the Lynching.