Reading Anna Swir Aloud

The poem starts
a line about her father’s
crummy art studio
I pinch the book open
with my left thumb
and jog the baby
slung over my right arm
as I read
and there was no bread for tomorrow

The poem stops
the belly of our house upset
by a two-year-old
forking butter
the whole butter stick
into her mouth
the clang of dirty dishes
a badass jetting down the road
he would take up his pallet and start

the poem this poem
meant something to me I say
and our oldest is
telling then singing a story
about “Laura pioneer”
and Pa
and wheat fields
I give the baby a clean spoon
to fondle
his pallet and start

to sing
The poem stops
My wife raises her voice
inviting divine wrath and fire
to consume the children
for their headlong lack of respect
and trail of toys
Maybe now is not a good time to do this
I moan
but she’s not having it
Don’t you start

the poem start the poem
again but I am out of focus
Who turned the radio up
What is that grinding sound
in my leg
Will someone please take
the kettle off
The children are destroying each other
in a distant corner
Father I begin
from the top
sang all his life

--Martin Cockroft