Catholic Dad

I’ve got a quiverful of children.

The Bible calls them arrows

and me lucky

and I am.

Though I’ve a pretty good view

of the target, and pull the bow

the same way every time,

bends in the air

send the one a-high

and the one a-low

and dams back in

their beaver,



I duck myself when they circle around.


I practice.

I do practice.

But my son and my daughter

fly where they will.

Over and under but especially

under the hill,

they fly where they will.



On passing

(the) untroubled younger siblings

playing hopscotch – not only

untroubled, but joyous –

and remembering (being older)

one who had died, one who

their older sister

and brother knew,

and recalling, too,

the once and still

vacant look in their mother’s eyes.