I mistook my father for a sewer rat once, his tail
dragging behind, plump and serpentine.

I followed the S’s onto our yellowed half-acre,
stopped at the sound of hens; the flocks in the

tallest branches, alive with a foliage of wings.

This is where she and I pushed our pants to our ankles
and peed, heard God’s voice roar—What the hell?

Or maybe that was my father—we didn’t turn around to see,
scrabbling through the thistle, as we were, on our knees.

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SARAH PAPE teaches English and works as the Managing Editor of Watershed Review at Chico State. Her poetry and prose has recently been published or are forthcoming in: Ecotone, Crab Orchard Review, Harpur Palate, The Pinch, Smartish Pace, The Collapsar, Pilgrimage, The Squaw Valley Review, The Superstition Review, and Hayden’s Ferry Review. She curates community literary programming and is a member of the Quoin Collective, a local letterpress group. Check out her website for more: www.sarahpape.com.

One response to “Unanswered Questions”

  1. Rebecca Cook says:

    Love this poem. Love. Love.

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