Black Files

Grace Massey

My father’s funeral, whiskey seeps

into the floorboards, in the sunroom 

with no sun, my uncle finds me—

navy sailor dress, ruffled socks, bare legs 

that his fingers seek. 

My mother, looking for booze asks, 

What the hell are you doing to my daughter? 

and leaves. I was young enough

to feel flattered, not old enough

to push his hand away. 

BLANK

June evenings man-child uncle

flying model planes in a field of bees.

When he dies, he leaves me a poem 

where balsa insects circle a dead hive.