A Poem by Anthony Opal

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Fox Vox
in brown socks. A man
tends to a body
in the crematorium. It
is my father, lit
from the inside like an ember.
So much for daydreaming,
for nay-saying.
So much for shaking
like a leaf with Exploding
Head Syndrome. Oh, God—
I saw your face over
the face of last October.
“You can stay at my place,
though I don’t have a trace
of potter’s clay.”
The fox returns
chasing two blackbirds;
snow like ash falls into a pot
as into an urn, turns.


Anthony Opal Anthony Opal

Anthony Opal is poetry editor for The Economy and chapbook review editor for TriQuarterly Online. His poems, prose, and translations have appeared in various magazines and journals, including Boston Review, Harpur Palate, Notre Dame Review, and The Progressive. He lives in Chicago, where he is an MFA candidate at Northwestern University. To read more, visit www.anthonyopal.com.

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