LIVING LIVELY

PAISLEE JAHED

My father is a tower burning and blood-clotted knees, Brought back home to rest his anxiety quietly.

The deadliest day in New York City and my father is alive. A forgotten phone; his car, turning. Home, My mother crying, quietly.

His blood needs daily thinning. The Coumadin keeps him alive. His genes In me remind me not to sigh. Reliably. Quietly.

A cocktail glass cocked back every night at nine. Alcohol pumping him back to life. Irony spoke quietly.

He is strength, six foot four of length, and miracle bones. Branches where worry feels like home: viably and quietly.

Wrap me around your paisley work-shirt patterned with three stripes, I’m the reason you’re always beating death so violently, quietly.

OPPOSITE ILLUSTRATION BY ELLY CALL