is a creature not to be believed
here in the kitchen, a sudden

dark umbra.
After our brooms

turn to their bristles
and we swipe the ceiling,

my father’s old skin breaks
when we softly collide.

do you see this blood?
I almost reach

to touch the slick break,
corona of bruise—

through his body
I enter the body waiting for me—

his arms
dark as the wings

that flail
and fall from the light.


THE BAT by Thomas Dooley



Photo used under CC