by Megan Munger
Lynnie, all you learn
on our visits are Grandpa’s horses
like saltlicks, have soft manes.
Grandma’s office, a typewriter,
she lets you play. Both of them
smile and hug gentle,
but, at one time, I disowned
your grandpa, forced to watch him
hit his latest girlfriend, and I
barely recognized Grandma
across our breakfast table. Her eyes
were bruised, but so were his.
Lynnie, time apologizes. When we
were kids, Grandpa was angry
or gone. When he was home,
we froze, wished to become ghosts.
School loved me even less
than they did, so
you should be thankful for this
stability. I love you
with shards of glass leftover.
Megan Munger is a Kansas poet. Her poetry has previously appeared in Tipton Poetry Journal, The Best of Choeofpleirn Press, Rushing Thru the Dark (Choeofpleirn Press), Of Our Own Accord (Flying Ketchup Press), Kitchen Table Quarterly, and The Coop: A Poetry Cooperative. She currently resides in Junction City, Kansas, where she teaches English at Junction City High School and attends Pacific University’s low-residency MFA program.
Hawaii Pacific Review 