hangnail on my right ring finger has popped out again and
I refuse to make that a metaphor for the murky dream I had
about my dea d mother. Last night, my ninety-three-year old
father asked over the phone if I used metaphors in my poems.
Like Federico Garcia Lorca, he said, who used metaphors like
a French baker uses yeast. I told my father my poems were
simple, as simple as pan de sal or more apropos, unleavened
bread. Well, why don’t you send me some of your matzo
ball poetry? He said. At my age I can only digest simple things.
Nick Carbó is the author of four books
of poetry, the latest being Chinese, Japanese, What are These?
(2009). His poems have also appeared in Indiana Review, Ploughshares,
Coconut, Poetry, and TriQuarterly.