Poetry by Moriah McStay

             Martin Cathrae CC



A reflection on Time, my father, and pie 
​
The last Time I saw you,  
they’d laid you on your bedroom floor, 
tube in your mouth, 
eyes slack, 
face half-covered by a blanket. 
You were so much smaller than you should have been. 

When I go back in the summers, 
I won't walk over the place you lay on the floor. 
What if I step 
on your face, or ribs, or thighs 
still lingering, 
breathless and invisible. 

The last Time before the last Time I saw you,  
I sat beside you on the bed. 
You ate pie and were happy about it. 
It was a quiet, summer afternoon. 
Nothing much was happening, 
except the Red Sox on TV, 
and the beach earlier, 
and pie. 
I think it was strawberry rhubarb. 

We eat it still, in the summer, 
even though you aren't there and it was your favorite. 
But strawberry rhubarb means July, 
and July doesn't end even if 
you aren't here to watch the waves. ​




Moriah McStay is an MFA student at the University of Memphis, the Managing Editor of The Pinch Journal, and author of the novel Everything That Makes You (HarperCollins).