Poetry by Devon Neal

      Tim Vrtiska CC




Self-Portrait as a Father’s Son

I’ve heard dads live in cold garages, gloved
in dark uniforms with the names
they carry that you never say, oil smeared
at their hips, trucker caps eating their hair.
At dinner they come in with a sour beer smile,
their words a tangle of car engine ducts,
hands stained in shadows. From your bedroom
window, you hear the winged notes
of classic rock radio making lightning
in the sky, truck taillights red and rumbling,
men’s voices a slur of half-words. At bedtime,
there are rough hands on your forehead
and carpetburn beard on your tender face,
and as you drift to sleep you know
they’re out there building something
only dads know how to build.

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Plants Don’t Have Dads

only seeds brimming with green life
in the wet dirt, pearls of water sticking
to bristles of eager stalks, pools of rain
under their stiffening leaves, the sun’s
warm light unfolding their secret blooms,
the celebration of pistil and fruit.
But in winter, they grow stale and brown,
leaves shed like falling scars, stalks
bending and crisping until the wind
chews them into frigid ash,
just like me.

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Devon Neal (he/him) is a Kentucky-based poet whose work has appeared in many publications, including HAD, Stanchion, Stone Circle Review, Livina Press, and The Storms, and has been nominated for Best of the Net in 2023 and the Pushcart Prize in 2024. He currently lives in Bardstown, KY with his wife and three children.
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