i.

My father, lonely 

eyes judge people

see them count 

balloons each birthday 

forsaken miserly wishes 

ii.

my father was lonely all his life he sits now free of children 

and I will be too pondering praying to no longer be 

trapped in a notion my father is lonely counting up all the I love yous 

which equates family   and I am too caught up ruminating 

he was here with flowers for my birthdays my father will be lonely 

he is no longer  wishing and I am. 

iii. 

We, like crisp edges of paper wrapped, present at the close of a wish: my father, below an expanse of bellowing balloons, myself, bouquet hoping, loft eyes around room, brood each year over who we could be, my father’s father, broken he died, alonehearted, buried by possession.

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Rachel Orta (she/her) is from Milwaukee, Wisconsin. She gravitates towards dream-like themes, often inspired by mysteries of nature and complexities of family. Orta’s writing has recently appeared in FERAL and Heimat Review. A full list of her published pieces and links to social media can be found here - https://linktr.ee/RachelOrta.