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Father’s Day
I have streamlined gift giving
with an efficiency the men in my family
would applaud: a digital meat thermometer
with Bluetooth for all the fathers
in my life—my father, my father-
in-law, my stepfather-in-law.
My husband does not get one
because he does not want
to be a father, but we make love
twice in the same day—
we’re good at it. Making each other
fuzzy with pleasure. I don’t think
two people could have been happier,
Virginia Woolf wrote
in her final suicide note. I think he’s afraid
he is my Leonard, or
I am afraid he finds some joy in it,
making coffee for a woman
who spends too many mornings
drowning in her own mind,
missing the thrill of summer
unfurling outside the window.
I can’t blame him for not believing
I’d be good at wiping asses
and noses, but lately everything
mamas me. The dogs say mama
when I fill their bowls, and the hydrangeas
say mama when I water them,
and my little niece asks whose mama
I am, because I am the right age
and size for a mama. Toddlers clutch
at my legs at zoos and breweries
with fenced yards for children to run
while their parents drink
with friends, with me. It’s selfish,
but sometimes I look at my love’s
long dark lashes, his high cheekbones,
and think—O God, I need more
of him. We could make something
so beautiful. But we don’t.
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Dr. Stevie Edwards is an Assistant Professor at Clemson University, and poetry editor of The South Carolina Review. Stevie’s poems have appeared in Poetry, American Poetry Review, TriQuarterly, The Southern Review, and elsewhere. They are the author of Quiet Armor (Northwestern University Press, 2023), Sadness Workshop (Button Poetry, 2018), Humanly (Small Doggies Press, 2015), and Good Grief (Write Bloody Publishing, 2012). They hold a PhD from the University of North Texas and an MFA from Cornell University. Originally a Michigander, they now live in South Carolina with their spouse and a small herd of rescue pit bulls. [This poem originally appeared in The Southern Review, summer 2023.]
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Photo by Gisèle Freund of Virginia Woolf and Leonard Sidney Woolf, color print, 1939.
There’s a great mysterious sadness in this poem that stays with me beyond the unanswered implicit question in its last line. The author has beautifully managed to address the complex feelings surrounding mortality without flogging it as a theme. Thanks, Stevie and Terence!
Posted by: David Beaudouin | February 02, 2025 at 11:24 AM
Sad beauty. Fine poem.
Posted by: Bill Nevins | February 02, 2025 at 11:54 AM
I feel a great triumph in this poem --a control of destiny-- and a great sweet pleasure. Glad to meet her(them.)
Posted by: Grace Cavalieri | February 02, 2025 at 11:56 AM
David: thanks for the comment.
Posted by: Terence Winch | February 02, 2025 at 12:07 PM
I feel the voices of Stevie and Virginia Woolf merging in this sad but powerful poem… The last lines just pierced me: “We could make something/so beautiful. But we don’t.” (And interesting where the line break is…) Thanks Stevie and Terence!…Another great poem for me to ponder this week!
Posted by: Sr. Leslie | February 02, 2025 at 12:43 PM
Unutterably sad photo.
Posted by: jim c | February 02, 2025 at 02:11 PM
Thanks for the response, Leslie.
Posted by: Terence Winch | February 02, 2025 at 02:47 PM
Frank for sure! And quite beautiful. The last two lines clutch my gut. Thx, both of you. No, the three of you.
Posted by: Clarinda Harriss | February 02, 2025 at 04:47 PM
totally engaging and brilliantly crafted poem, thank you for it
Posted by: lally | February 03, 2025 at 01:06 PM
Sad and beautiful poem. Great artwork.
Posted by: Eileen | February 03, 2025 at 04:38 PM