Thursday, 3 February 2022


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.

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