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About this poet

David Petruzelli grew up in New Jersey. He is the author of Everyone Coming Toward You (Tupelo Press, 2005), selected by Campbell McGrath for the Tupelo Press First Book Judge’s Prize. A professional philatelist, he lives in New York City.

Daughter

In the days when I wrote shorts stories
and still didn't know how dreadful they were,

when I used the real names of everyone 
I knew, I could not imagine

anything other than how they dressed,
what they ate, and why they did the expected.

And I didn't notice across the river
and overcast afternoon in Manhattan, or see

the girl who's taken to the children's bookstore
where her favorite author signs his latest work.

Her mother, who's recently divorced
and would never describe herself as impulsive

discovers she's attracted to the man,
and while afterward her daughter pretends

to examine the displays of books, the woman
invites him to their apartment for dinner.

The shop where this will happen is small
but well situated, filling steady orders

from the private schools that seem to be 
on every other block. The girl, who's seven

and still loves being read to, is in her room
that looks across to Riverside Park. 

A wall calendar reads 1980,
which seems right for the styles of dresses

hanging in her closet, or the pink
record player that sits in one corner

and is living on borrowed time. In the kitchen
she has to be told more than once to eat lunch,

but she is thinking about later, and while
she isn't sure what will happen at the bookshop,

she dreams of discouraging clouds 
which shadow the other children,

that rain will punish their beautiful mothers,
though none as beautiful as hers,

and she can see―seated at a table,
fountain pen in his long fingers

and waiting patiently, the handsome prince
whose story she will write without my help.

Copyright © 2013 David Petruzelli. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in The Southern Review, Spring 2013.

Copyright © 2013 David Petruzelli. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in The Southern Review, Spring 2013.

David Petruzelli

David Petruzelli

David Petruzelli is the author of Everyone Coming Toward You (Tupelo Press, 2005). He lives in New York City.

by this poet

poem
When I was eight months old, Jackson Pollock

stuck his hand in my crib and let me squeeze

one of his fingers. He was in my parents' kitchen

in Hoboken, where we lived for three years;

he said the new linoleum reminded him

of one of his paintings. Every time my mother

tells the story, she always adds, "this
poem
It might have been that haunted cellar
her sister Rosalind dared her to go
down into and Zelda didn’t think twice
about exploring, or it could have been
out back in a shed like the one where
she began storing her paintings
after Mrs. Sayre claimed she
poem
Asheville, North Carolina
 
 
It would be hours before housekeeping
came and found Scott in the bathroom,
his pajama bottoms somewhere
under him, his upper half in a body cast
from when he broke his right