WITH EACH PASSING YEAR. by Chani Zwibel

When the brakes failed, they killed my father.

We sued the riding lawnmower manufacturers but lost.

The white-haired father-killer

Hired a trained weasel in a grey suit.

You can dig a man up from his grave,

He can sit on the stand with worms in his beard,

And still Death is the bastard,

His steel-bladed scythe and his baggy black hood

Assure you he’ll come for you, too.   

The journey home on the public bus,

My mother wept continuously, and my sister and I stared out the window.

A year later,

My mother’s tears filled her blue eyes

And seasoned her new year’s sauerkraut;

Each new year lead further away from the grey stone on the hill.

When I turned twenty-two the realization appeared

That I’d lived as many years as I’d known my father, plus some months,

And each passing birthday would add more years than I’d known him.

I saw Death laughing behind my birthday candles’ smoke.

I made my wish, about which I’ll keep silent.

Chani Zwibel is a graduate of Agnes Scott College, was born and raised in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, but now dwells in Marietta, Georgia, with her husband and their dog. She is an associate editor with Madness Muse Press. She enjoys writing poetry after nature walks and daydreaming.