Halved

after breakfast
mom waits
staring
through a window
in our white house

cold rain
dulls the spark
of orange poppies
on the front lawn
as the mailman arrives

under the puddle of gray light
that hovers above our dining room
she holds the letter
from their white house
stunned
she hands dad the letter

he stands
outside
in a winter prison
guarded by
barbed wire branches
that reach
for an impossible sky
his gnarled fingers
on new cigarettes

in the garage
the blue Chevelle
remains unfinished
and my brother
will return to us
like a Christmas present
in a box

James Kowalczyk was born and raised in Brooklyn but now lives in Northern California with his wife and two daughters . He was working about four blocks from ground zero when the towers fell. His work has appeared in Waterways:Poetry in the Mainstream, First Leaves, and Main Street Rag.