Faucet by Emilio Aguilera


Sometimes it pours out,
a scream, the band aid for
the cut finger,
a tunnel of tub bubbles
and its train whistle.

If I listen hard enough
when the hot water runs,
I hear the chill in mother’s voice
freezing me to the lid
of the cookie jar.

is the language of father’s belt
telling the story at bedtime.

And still it pours,
the Lucky Charm dinners,
the teddy bear tears,
the lost Legos.

Everything but solace.

And closure starts
with the next drowning
of barley and hops,
their seductive fields
taking a lifetime to dry.

by Emilio Aguilera

Editor’s Note: Surreal imagery carefully reprises difficult childhood memories, and leads the reader from past to present. The ending is a killer.


Leave a Reply




©2006—2023 Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY — Privacy Policy