sign up to receive a new poem-a-day in your inbox
My Father's Hats
Sunday mornings I would reach high into his dark closet while standing on a chair and tiptoeing reach higher, touching, sometimes fumbling the soft crowns and imagine I was in a forest, wind hymning through pines, where the musky scent of rain clinging to damp earth was his scent I loved, lingering on bands, leather, and on the inner silk crowns where I would smell his hair and almost think I was being held, or climbing a tree, touching the yellow fruit, leaves whose scent was that of a clove in the godsome air, as now, thinking of his fabulous sleep, I stand on this canyon floor and watch light slowly close on water I'm not sure is there.
Mark Irwin is the author of nine poetry collections, including A Passion According to Green (New Issues Poetry & Prose, 2017) and Large White House Speaking (New Issues Poetry & Prose, 2013). He lives in Colorado and Los Angeles, where he teaches in the PhD in Creative Writing and Literature Program at the University of Southern California.