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What I name father or field
could be fossil. Could be Virginia’s haze. Could be faith. It’s true. What bridges do is take the open palms of two places, and give them a single story. What rivers do is bridge. What oceans do is hold. I try to recognize the hands that made this middle distance. How the past peels away today, gives it another life. When my father left church with football on his mind he still took the slow way home, made sure the river wrapped us up every Sunday. So the story could stick. So we learned something softer than just another road. |
About This Unit: Poems on Family and Finding Other Lines of Symmetry |
TRAVIS TRUAX grew up in Virginia and Oklahoma and spent most of his twenties working in various national parks out west. A graduate of Southeastern Oklahoma State University, his work has appeared in Salamander, Quarterly West, Bird’s Thumb, The Pinch, Colorado Review, and Phoebe. He Lives in Bozeman, Montana, where he is hard at work on publishing his first chapbook.
