Poetry by Andréa Ferrell Gannon
April, boxing Mother’s estate:
bundles of crayon drawings, baby books, and Hallmark
cards. Congratulations! a baby girl. You’re
disappointed—but she’ll be Daddy’s
every happiness. Date ordered,
filed docs: our relation’s gangster days in evidence,
gay-bashing, road raging, steroid
hazes. For Dad: parole forms, prison
intakes: Rolaids, belt, watch, wallet. How they
joked that my place and Mom’s were barefoot in the
kitchen, and I shot back how theirs was the inside of trouble. Next,
letters via aerogramme, agenda books embossed:
Mrs. RG Ferrell. Years full and glib. Jan. 1st resolutions so
neat: always the same: don’t leave the dishes till morning!
Oh then a younger waitress and RG gone early, then ball games all day, Andréa on his
chest.
Perhaps Dad was resting. For what was to come.
Quiet calendar squares. No more
Remembrances and don’t-forgets, or birthdays like in ’67 through ’71:
Pool with Toni and the kids. New BBQ. Mum and Dad for
Father’s Day. A drive along the coast. Westwood art show.
Silence. I flipped through the hollowed months and heard
terrible weeks of watery pleas, don’t leave
us. Grandad’s writing, those bloody Yanks. Their word is shite.
Scribbled info for that fall’s flight to St. Albans. Mom just
Valerie again. She kept a photo of my
wedding dress, my sonograms—congratulations me! Not a double
X chromosome for miles. Excavating
yanks me back. I side-eye Mom’s engagement ring and hear our echoes.
Zirconia and my condolences.
Andréa Ferrell Gannon, MFA, is a native Californian and the daughter of an English immigrant and a Lakota. She taught French and Spanish for many years, then English to adolescent refugees and immigrants. Find her now or soon in The Washington Post, The Coachella Review, GRXL, Kelp Journal, Cricket, and Poet Lore.