My Father’s Blackjack

by Steven Sher | Dec 30, 2014 | Poetry | 1

at Newark Airport, April 2001

I dumped my sundries out

then stuffed them back into my bag,

the checker waving me on through.

Forgetting what I’d packed

in haste and slid in a side pouch:

my father’s blackjack for my son.

You couldn’t imagine a more reluctant

cop, one less inclined to cuff a crook

or brandish deadly force. Father,

save me from this shrunken

shaven head atop its elongated neck—

the wagging, weighted, long, black tongue

about to testify against me.

Photo By: Alan Levine

About The Author

Steven Sher

New York-born, Steven Sher is the author of 14 books including, most recently, two new poetry collections: The House of Washing Hands (Pecan Grove Press, 2014) and Grazing on Stars: Selected Poems (Presa Press, 2012). He has taught writing at many workshops and universities for more than 35 years. Find out more about his writing at stevensher.net. He presently lives in Jerusalem.

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