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The Light Above the Grass

Matthew Dickman

I wake up in the morning

And think


People are alive

Making things, children


And apps, they

Are running to one


Another and then my arm

Falls asleep.


Most of the men

Who did not exactly know


They were my father

Are dead


And so


My father keeps





Both my sons are sleeping

At their mom’s apartment.


I can’t always feel

My legs


But I don’t want to tell


Anyone. I’m so afraid

Of everything.


When I called Mary

To ask her how Ralph died


I ended up calling Mary

To tell her that Ralph died.


I think I can pretend


To be a person for

Maybe only a few more years.


And after that,

The moon is just going to


Have to defend itself,

The shadows


In the tall grass are just

Going to have to learn


How to self-soothe.


My sons will just have

To learn something


About fathers

Who leave without knowing


They are leaving.

Whether I’m here,


Not being able to feel


My face,


Or not here and my face

Is just the light above the grass.


Part of 'In the Beginning of Covid-19', a series of poems curated by Jason Dodge in 2020

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