Michael DeMaranville has lived in six different countries on three continents, he currently resides in Shanghai, China. His eighth grade teacher inspired him to start writing poetry and this has become his safe haven for retreat from the world. A good friend recently pushed him to escape from escapism and start seeking publication. The thrill of a single acceptance was enough, this is an addiction now.
Evenings, father returned
click of the door lock
slide of the deadbolt
behind him. Every night
double-checking those locks
and all the windows
I was eight when I
first saw the revolver
in his desk by his bed
though I never saw it budge
from its corner niche, it never
gathered dust, nor rust.
One adolescent night, I found no
sentry in the usual rocking chair
behind the bolts, after both keys.
He, in bed, a blue screen buzzing
before his gasping, deer-eyed
reach for the desk
as I whispered I’m home.
Father and I never spoke again
about that Abrahamic moment
Now, I watch your searching
eye: distrustful, wary
and I know this
is true inheritance
more real than money, more real
than my features featured on you,
Anyone could have given you those.
When we meet in the dim lit moon
shadows, I feel your bright
observant gaze on my hand
checking the lock.
Inquiring eyes questioning what
I fear. Most of all, losing you
I do not expect you to understand.
You, like I did, will laugh
at father’s foolish fear
until you have a child of your own
who gets up for a drink of water
at midnight to find you —
checking the locks.