The Pub

In every story she writes

Bethany Demasie

the sons have red hair that won't cooperate,
chase unlucky toads, and lose annual footraces
to clever and unhappy daughters.

Mothers wear plaid aprons and listen
to political radio programs, slamming spatulas
on the counter and cursing those goddamn
commies when the kids are outside.

Fathers come home from work early or not at all,
and spend weekends at jazz clubs
regretting that they stopped playing bass.

First loves will end for foreseeable reasons
that daughters are about to explain in a cafe
when the final sentence reads, “Then a bomb went off”;

death, as if by principle, takes no enlightened turn.