The White Oak

by Louisa Muniz

 
Father sits on the stoop
looking all—bull thistle,
pepperweed, hawkweed—
difficult to manage.
 
After two shots of Bacardi
to quell his quiet suffering
I sneak away. Follow the trail
 
of leaves, grass & bramble
into the woods. I find my place
under the deep shadows of trees,
silent specters, welcoming arms.
 
The White Oak bends & bows
beneath the bloated clouds.
 
It asks for nothing.
 
When the tawny-gray caterpillar
crawls across the wet moss
I remove my socks & shoes,
steep my feet in the chattering brook.
 
When it’s time to return
I hopscotch home.
 
The song of the thrush
beckons me to stay.  
 

* * * * *

Louisa Muniz lives in Sayreville, N.J. She holds a Master’s in Curriculum and Instruction from Kean University. Her work has appeared in Tinderbox Journal, Palette Poetry, Menacing Hedge, Poetry Quarterly, PANK Magazine, Jabberwock Review and elsewhere. She won the Sheila-Na-Gig 2019 Spring Contest for her poem "Stone Turned Sand." Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and a Pushcart Prize. Her debut chapbook After Heavy Rains by Finishing Line Press was released in December, 2020.