The Tower

Angela Yocum




Dad went to college and became a sorcerer,
The door is locked from the inside of the tower,
As he toils through his ancient gramarye
Filled with the esoteric mysteries of learning.
I know I’m not to be a distraction, but I am
A winged-monkey of curiosity, hovering
Over the keyhole.
Mom, quiet and respectful of futures
Conjured from printed spells, turns the knob
As if caressing a crystal ball, she glides across
The floor, sits the lunch plate on a stack of clean,
White Epsom paper, walks back to me without
Words spoken. I only glimpse his head bent
Over a book, the smell of trees pressed
Into thin pages, before she starts to close
the door.
“You can let her in,” he calls and I run,
Over the dirt brown of the worn shag carpet,
a barefoot witch in training.