Father’s so weathered after years
of work his skin chips off his limbs.
He leaves a trail of his daily routine
down the stairs, scattered through
the kitchen, littering the living room.
Every winter Father pulses bright red,
veins tying muscle to bone. His routine
narrows as the temperature drops—
just a neat row of flecks back and forth.
He paces himself down to nothing
but ashes. I scoop them into my hands,
throw them in the road
to melt the snow.
Andrea Sherwood is from Western PA. She’s currently living in Pittsburgh and attending Carnegie Mellon University for Creative Writing.